Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
She doesn’t post anything about herself, though. Only staged pictures of food, fashion, and nature. Rarely does she write anything, so when I find a picture of a Labrador puppy with the caption, ‘One day,’ I take note.
Ugh. Puppies shit everywhere and chew on everything.
But it’s her birthday next week, and a puppy might be just the thing to cheer her up.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m searching for Labrador breeders, but there are no available litters in the US.
“Never thought I’d smuggle a fucking dog into the country,” I mutter as I send an email to one of my contacts in the UK.
When I’m done gathering every bit of information about Rosalie I can find, I focus on work, making sure the incoming shipments are on schedule and all my men are taking care of business.
Chapter 7
Rosalie
God help me.
I lie on the floor next to the bed with my eyes shut tightly.
I don’t want to face the world without my family. I don’t want to think of the bleak future that awaits me.
I can’t deal with the trauma. It’s too much, threatening to strip me of my sanity.
I hear Viktor’s footsteps come down the hallway and press my back hard against the base of the bed as I curl into a tight ball.
“Get up,” he orders.
Leave me alone.
“Rosalie.” Warning laces the single word.
I ignore him, just wanting to lie here until I die.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he snaps, then he grabs hold of my arm and yanks me to my feet. I’m shoved in the direction of the bathroom. “Shower and change your clothes. We’re late for lunch.”
My jaw clenches, and my throat tightens. Spinning around to face him, I shout, “I’m not going!”
“Blyadʹ, you’re testing my patience,” he grumbles, his expression rivaling a thundercloud.
I lift my chin, determined to at least stand my ground. He might have kidnapped me, but I sure as hell won’t obey his every command. “I. Don’t. Care.” Feeling reckless and like I have nothing to lose, I take a step closer. “Kill me.”
Viktor’s eyes narrow on my face. “Don’t tempt me, Little Rose.”
Losing my sanity, I dart forward and slam my fists against his chest. “Kill me!”
Viktor’s arms lock around me and secure me to his chest with a brutal hold. I squirm and fight but quickly grow tired. The emotions I’ve managed to squash down during the night erupt like a volcano and force broken cries from me.
He places a hand behind my head and curls his body into mine, his other arm remaining locked around me. I feel him press his mouth to my hair. “Shh…”
Engulfed by Viktor and in desperate need of comfort, I press as close to him as I can while weeping for everything I’ve lost.
“Jesus, Rosalie,” he murmurs, concern tightening the words. “I’m so fucking sorry for the pain you’re going through.”
The apology won’t bring back my family, but it eases some of the heartache – enough for me to breathe and for my sanity to return.
My arms are caught between us, and I manage to grip hold of his shirt, needing the comfort he’s offering just for a little while longer.
“If you don’t believe anything else, just believe that I won’t hurt you.”
It doesn’t matter. I’ve already been hurt in ways I’ll never be able to recover from.
Viktor pushes me back an inch, his hands frame my face, and I’m forced to look up at him as lost sobs flutter over my lips. His eyes bore into mine, and for the first time, there’s no sign of the brutality always lurking in the dark depths of his irises. There’s only compassion.
“You’re going to be okay.”
I shake my head, my skin brushing against his palms. “I won’t.”
I’ve lost too much.
The happy girl from yesterday died with her family, and in her place are broken shards of who she once was.
“You will. It’s just going to take some time.”
Because he doesn’t look like the head of the bratva but a man who actually has a beating heart in his chest, I dare to plead, “Please, let me go.”
Slowly he shakes his head, the compassion vanishes, and he pulls away from me. “Stop asking. I’ll only give you your freedom when you’re twenty-one.”
My shoulders slump, and turning around, I walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
“You have ten minutes,” he calls out.
Inhaling deeply, I turn on the faucets and watch as the water sprays against the tiles.
I’m so tired. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.
I won’t be able to fight for three years. But giving in is not an option.
Maybe I’ll be able to talk to Viktor’s mother. Or, with a little luck, I’ll get to meet Isabella. Maybe one of the women will be willing to help me.
The thought is the only thing giving me the strength to shower. When I step back into the bedroom, I’m relieved to see Viktor’s not waiting. I quickly dress in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. I braid my wet strands, then leave the bedroom.