Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“What it says doesn’t matter. I did not agree to—”
When he attempts to silence me again with another brain-rattling slap, I kick him in the chest with my stiletto before racing for the closest door.
“Help!” I shout.
My fists banging on the carved wooden door are as loud as my body's whack when Bastian squashes me against it. As his body pins me to the door and he keeps my hands contained above my head, his spare hand yanks up the hem of my dress. “You are my fucking wife. I paid for you, so you will do as asked.”
“No. Fucking. Chance,” I pant out between big breaths before I throw my head back with so much force the crack of my skull against his nose can’t be denied.
My head broke his nose.
“You fucking bitc—” He’s silenced by my heel this time. I stomp it down hard on his sock-covered foot before ramming my elbow into his ribs.
When he coughs and gargles, I push back with all my might before slipping under his arm and sprinting for the door opposite me.
Bastian trips me. I stretch out for the antique dresser in the middle of a wallpapered wall to steady my fall, but I still go down fast. Even quicker than that, he flips me over and straddles my hips.
His weight is unbearable, and I almost give up until I seek the visual of anything but him shredding my clothes from my body. His gun fell with me. It is a mere inch from my reach.
I stretch with all my might, but reprieve is only awarded as Bastian skids me across the polished floorboards when he yanks my dress around my waist. The slightest bump now has his gun within reach. I don’t know how to use it, but I fake it until I make it as I snatch it up and press it to his temple.
He freezes in an instant before his pupils swamp his corneas.
“Get the fuck off me.”
“You—”
“Now!”
When I remember Saka’s response to a man following me down a dark alleyway last month, I flick across the black nub on the gun, releasing the safety mechanism before compressing on the now moveable trigger.
It doubles the darkness of Bastian’s eyes, but it has him following my order without further protest. He raises his hands before shuffling back, his lips furled and angry.
When I push away from him, the material of my dress slips back down my thighs far enough that I’m almost fully covered again by the time I stand. Only portions of my bra and a handful of scratches from his unclipped nails are showing. Other than that, I am relatively unscathed.
“Give me the key.”
Not accustomed to losing, he sneers, “Do you think your mother—”
“I don’t give a fuck what she wants. Open the fucking door or give me the damn key so I can do it myself.”
He looks like he wants to punish me for my potty mouth, but instead, he tugs on the key so firmly that the chain snaps before he tosses it to my feet.
I hate how firmly I shake while endeavoring to bend down to collect my ticket to freedom and keep the gun aimed at his head, but I also feel empowered. I fought, and I won. I simply loathe that this could only be the start of my battle.
For years, I’ve done as my mother asked because she convinced me I’d be nothing without her. I placed all my self-worth on what my parents could give me. I never considered how worthwhile it would be to achieve it myself. That isn’t unusual for a twenty-year-old woman who’s never gone it alone. We think our lives are at our feet until someone tries to strip them away.
I could have never predicted an awakening like this, though.
What if Bastian hadn’t brought a gun to our fight? He could have overpowered me.
The knowledge has me inching in the trigger more than Bastian appreciates. “When you’re returned to me”—his eyes gleam with evilness—“and you will be returned, Natalya, that is a given, you will pay for the—”
I shoot out the light above his head, which shuts him up and sprinkles his white dress shirt with shards of the bulb and the fancy fitting.
It only keeps him quiet for three seconds. “I bought you. I own you. You will do as I fucking say…” He continues rambling when I open the door and stumble into the hallway, my sways now in fear instead of alcohol.
Recalling his confession that the lock is a deadbolt, and hopeful my mother didn’t answer my pleas for help because she left my room shortly after abandoning me with a madman, I spin back around to deadbolt the door.
The relief when the catch slips into place is immense, but it has nothing on the freedom I feel when I toss the gun onto a maid’s cart and enter an empty elevator, my trust too low to put faith in anyone in my mother’s inner circle.