Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I curse him out so viciously in my mind, I swear he can read me just from looking.
You fucking bastard.
You selfish prick.
You’re a motherfucking asshole.
I never swear out loud, but hell, this situation seems to warrant it. It so does.
“Up you go, little brat,” he says.
“I thought you meant baby?” I say, but he shakes his head with a chuckle.
“That was before you looked at me with those beautiful, murderous eyes. Now there’s only the brat about you, my detka.”
“Could that have anything to do with the fact that you just manhandled me, brought me to the edge of climax, jerked yourself all over me, and beat me?”
“A spanking isn’t the same as a beating, sweetheart,” he says with sickening condescension. “I gave the bastard who tried to take advantage of you a beating. What you got was a reminder of my authority and a taste of how pain can become pleasure.”
“Pleasure? You call that pleasure? You left me hanging, with no pleasure in sight, while you—”
But he’s had enough. His eyes harden, and he grips my hair one more time.
“That’s enough of this,” he says, giving me a little tug. “My patience is growing thin. Behave yourself. If you do, this evening I’ll make good on my promise to pleasure you.”
He drops me and my face falls to the pillow before he takes my wrists and unfastens the cuffs. “Up you go,” he says, and I want to literally punch him in the throat for treating me like this. I’ve never been aroused and left hanging, and I fucking hate it. It’s like some sadistic game for him or something.
Was it in my head before, imagining that he had any tenderness in him at all?
“I’ll call Eliott,” he says. Of course. I’m a mess now thanks to him and he won’t have me tattered and unkempt before his associates. I can’t help but grumble under my breath, barely stifling the desire to smack him with my newly freed hands or cuss him out, but I’m a quick learner.
I sit on the edge of the bed fuming, when he stands right in front of me and chucks a finger under my chin. “Look at me, Caroline.”
I look into his deep brown eyes and see something that surprises me: compassion.
But he isn’t trying to get my attention or control me. This time, he’s actually looking at the scar on my chin in the light of the bedside table.
“Who did this to you?”
I swallow, weighing my options. “If I tell you, what will you do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Punish them.”
“Is that what you do to anyone who doesn’t do what you wish?”
Meeting my gaze, he nods. “Yes.”
“Is there no one more powerful than you?” Is he that arrogant? I have sense enough not to ask the second question aloud.
“Of course there are,” he says. “But even the mighty can fall.”
Does he consider himself one of the “mighty” ones? Is he capable, then, of falling?
My chin still in his hand, I watch as his eyes wander back to my scar.
“Do you consider yourself infallible?” I ask him.
Still focusing on my scar, he shakes his head. “No man is infallible, Caroline.” His eyes wander to my hair. “And I changed my mind. We won’t need Eliott. I’m capable of helping you get ready myself.”
I look at his thick fingers and imagine they’re clumsy. And hell if I know how to put on makeup or fix my hair. The traditional Russian women fix themselves up to perfection and I pale in comparison. But if I’m to be paraded around in front of all of the visitors he has coming, I want to look my best.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
With a chuckle, he drops my chin and grabs my elbow, lifting me to my feet and doesn’t answer. He leads me to the bathroom by the hand, and it feels intimate, holding his hand, somehow even more intimate than what he did to me sexually.
I hate that he manipulated me that way. After what I’ve been through, the abuse at Andros’ hands, I hate sex. I don’t want to like it. Damn Tomas for making me want more.
Damn him.
But when he leads me to the bathroom, I begin to quiet a little. He’s preparing to take me to present to his brotherhood. To local politicians and wealthy leaders. When I’m ready, it will be time.
My stomach clenches with fear and nausea. He instructs me to stand in front of him and releases my hand, oblivious to my worry.
“This is a beautiful dress,” he murmurs. “Fitting for the woman who will wear it.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I whisper. “Is it, like, your duty or something? Are you trying to seduce me?”
He gathers my undergarments, and when he returns, he gives me a curious look. “Seduce you. Of course I’m trying to seduce you.” He takes the panties and tosses them into a basket in the corner of the large bathroom. “You won’t be needing those. The bra I’ll allow.” He hands it to me to put on.