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)
He picks up his phone and calls someone who answers immediately. I can’t hear what he orders, and he comes back soon after making the call. I moan, not moving so I don’t cause nausea to spike again. Damn.
Someone comes to the door, and I hear hushed whispers. I groan when the door clicks shut. Then he’s sitting beside me on the bed. Reaching out, he strokes his hand across my forehead. It feels nice.
“Sit up slowly, Caroline,” he says. “No quick movements.”
My head hurts so badly I can’t think, so it’s actually nice to have someone take charge. I do what he says, my eyes still closed.
“Open your mouth.”
Okay now that I won’t do unless I can see why. I tentatively open one eye. He’s holding a bottle of water to my mouth. I take a small sip, but he shakes his head sternly. “More.”
“It makes me want to throw up,” I say, not bothering to tone the petulant tone of my voice.
“More,” he orders. He’s sitting up wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his tattoos swirled around his neck and arms like galaxies in the night sky.
I obey.
“Good girl,” he says approvingly. “Now medicine.”
He hands me white, oval-shaped tablets I assume are pain relievers. I swallow them down.
Nodding with approval, he instructs, “Now eat.”
The strong smell of vinegar assaults my senses, and my stomach rolls with nausea before I see what he’s holding. Is it some sort of weird Russian food? Even though I was raised in the Bratva, our food choices were decidedly American.
“Oh God no,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and clamping my mouth closed. Is he out of his damn mind?
But his voice hardens, and the glare he gives me dares me to defy. “You will do what I say and eat this. Now.”
I close my mouth and glare at him, shaking my head firmly from side to side.
His gaze grows ferocious and he actually literally growls. “You’ll do what I say or earn a sound spanking.”
“Tomas,” I whine, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears. I’m not a whiner, but I feel like I want to curl up and die. “If you make me eat that I’m gonna hurl. And I will absolutely die if I throw up all over my new husband. Just ew.”
“And if you don’t eat it, you’ll land belly-down over your new husband’s lap, get your pretty little bottom paddled, and then still might throw up. Seems like an easy choice to me.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not going to do it.”
He huffs out an angry breath, shakes his head, and places the tray down on the bed before he reaches for me. It isn’t until I’m halfway over his lap, hair swinging wildly about my face and hands flailing, that I realize he does indeed intend to make good on his promise. And this is not the time for a spanking, thank you very much.
“Stop! Okay, okay, I’ll eat whatever smelly thing you have.”
“It’s a pickled cucumber,” he says, placing me back on my back in bed. I breathe out a sigh of relief. God. I married a man with a heavy hand, and I’d do well to remember that.
“You mean a pickle? We call them pickles in America,” I retort with a grumpy huff. “And I can literally think of nothing I’d like to eat less right now.”
His eyes narrow in warning.
“Caroline.” He lifts it to my mouth, before his tone softens. “It’s an old-fashioned Russian remedy. Just trust me.”
I don’t want a spanking, and I don’t want a pickle, but my choices here are pretty dismal. With a sigh, I open my mouth a fraction of an inch. Shaking his head, he slides the pickle between my lips.
It’s tart and sweet, and nausea clenches my stomach, but as soon as I chew and swallow, the nausea abates a little. I give him a curious look. What magic is this?
“See? Eat the whole thing.” I want to smack the smug look off his face, but I know I’d regret that choice. And I’m too focused on helping the nausea abate. I swallow my pride and eagerly eat it, grateful that I’m no longer nauseous. He follows the pickle with a hot cup of tea and more water, then lays me back down in the bed. “Lay here for a few minutes and let the food settle. I’ll draw a bath and help you into it.”
A bath? Weird.
“Is that part of the Russian remedy, too?”
“It is.”
I lay on my side watching him walk toward the bathroom, all tats and muscles and glorious alpha male, and even though I’m uncomfortable and my head hurts so bad I want to cry, it makes me wonder. Is my new arrangement so bad? His fierce protection is something I didn’t even know I wanted until I had it. Once again, I think of my choices.