She delivered the name, bold as brass.
"You can call me Masha. Maria Aleksandra Ermatova. I'm from Russia."
I blinked, caught off guard. My cheeky smirk? It was gone in a flash.
And in that sudden quiet, something shifted. Between us. Deep inside me.
Her lie shattered. Her mask fractured, fragile as old porcelain.
Wait, nahhh... she had to be bluffing, right?
Right?
Mate, there's no way she's Russian! If she were, I'd have caught that accent immediately. She sounded like a proper American.
And you don't just hide a thick Russian accent.
Instead, she sounded like a proper Yank, she did. And believe you me, tryin' to hide a thick Russian burr is 'arder than findin' a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
Right, then. My thick Cockney just spit itself out of my tongue again, ain't it?
Masha's eyes, sharp as needles, flickered to my mouth.
"Funny." She said, her voice like silk, "And you seem to be losing your own Cockney quite quickly, Mr. Drake. Or perhaps you prefer the American now?"
The words hung in the air, a smug little statement of absolute certainty.
Then, like a punch to the gut, the realization hit me:
Pot. Kettle. Black.
Because I knew, better than most, just how easy—or how arduous—it was to shed your skin. My own Cockney was buried under layers of Mid-Atlantic polish, sometimes slipping into full-blown American when I wasn't thinking.
A proper Yank, she was.
Just like I could be, when I wanted to be.
And that made her lie... be a lot more complicated.
"... How did ya know?"
The question ripped out of me, raw and unplanned, just a whisper barely scraping past my throat. My carefully constructed Mid-Atlantic drawl, the one I'd worn like a second skin for years, had vanished like smoke.
All that was left was the bare, startled Cockney underneath.
Masha just smiled, a thin, knowing curve of her lips.
Wait, Masha?
And then it hit me, a cold splash of reality: Charlotte Nightfall.
That was her name, wasn't. Always had been, to me anyway.
But I'd just called her Masha. Casual as you like.
Since when? She just told me, not five minutes ago, and I'd just swallowed it like a black-pill. As if I could just accept that without any second question...
"Some things..." she purred, "are harder to hide than others, Mr. Drake."
Her gaze held mine, unwavering, then her smile widened, morphing into a deliberate, mocking grin.
"Now we're fair and square, aye matey?"
She said, intentionally twisting her tongue around my own accent.
A vein throbbed in my temple.
My hands, without thinking, curled into fists by my sides.
"Fair and square, huh?" I hissed, stepping closer, ignoring the space between us.
"You think you're clever, don't ya?"
Masha's eyes twinkled, clearly enjoying the sting of her barb, and the sight of me caught off guard.
"Oh, very much so, Mr. Drake."
She purred, leaning back slightly, as if settling in for a show.
My immediate instinct was to bite back, sharp and nasty.
But I held it, just barely. Instead, I let my gaze settle on hers, hard and unwavering.
No words.
Just a silent promise that this 'fair and square' game was far from over.
The silence thickened.
My lungs burned, the room suddenly tight.
I stepped closer, then closer still, until I loomed over her, my shadow swallowing her face. My hands, still fists, itched to grab something, anything.
Just to feel something solid. Just to take control.
Charlotte — Masha — watched me. Still cool as ice.
Her head tilted back, those eyes still sparking, daring me. No fear left there, just that infuriating, knowing calm. When I was practically on top of her, she reached out.
Her fingers, cold and slow, settled on my tie. A light touch, almost a stroke, dragging my eyes from hers, down to the knot, then her mouth.
"Control, Mr. Drake..." she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky grind that scraped my nerves raw. Her thumb brushed my throat, just under my jaw.
"It's a tricky thing, isn't it? Slips right through your fingers. You fought for it, yeah, but never truly held." She gave my tie a soft tug.
An invite, or a challenge, to come closer.
"Let's talk about you giving in, yeah? Or maybe... what we're going to be."
And then, as I leaned in, her knee was there. Hard against my crotch.
No warning, no shift, just a sudden, blunt pressure.
Her leg, firm and deliberate, shoved against me.
A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.
"Lost your bite there, haven't we, love?" she whispered, eyes still locked on mine, gleaming with pure triumph.
Then, her gaze drifted from my eyes, a slow, taunting descent over my face, down my body.
"Don't worry, Mr. Drake," she purred, her voice a silken thread, and a dangerous glint entered her eyes.
"The night is still young."