Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Mikhail:
Marshmallow Man’s rolls are reflective, and my phone’s zoom capabilities are the best in the country, so don’t even try to pretend your battery is flat.
Mikhail laughs when he catches the last half of my eye roll. “Some men in my industry would see that as a challenge.” He tilts closer to the camera, filling the screen. “Are you challenging me, Sunshine?”
Weeks of uncertainty slip away as I reply, “Would you call me a hussy if I said yes?”
“Fuck no.” He looks like he wants to say more, but something behind my shoulder alters the direction of our conversation. “Are you outside?” Before I can answer, he asks another question. “What time is it there?”
I cringe. “A little after four.”
“In the morning? How many buses did you take to get home?” He slants his head, draws his brows together, and then mutters, “Actually, don’t answer that.”
I hear the words he didn’t speak the loudest, and they hurt.
“He could have found me by now if he wanted to.”
Mikhail sighs while sinking back far enough for me to realize where he is. He’s sitting on the armchair Andrik placed me on before he suspended my pussy on his face. “I know. I just…” Again, he breathes out heavily. This one arrives with a heap of cusswords. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with him. He’s acting like nothing matters more right now than producing the next…”
When my expression announces he’s discussing his brother’s downfalls with the wrong person, his words trail off.
I smile to assure him I am grateful before telling him I have to go. “My bus is almost here.”
“Bus? You’re taking the fucking bus at this time of night? I don’t care if you live in the safest neighborhood in the world—no one is safe on public transport at four in the morning!”
He tsks me when I say, “It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“Zoya… fuck. You’re making my hands twitch, and I’m not a man who generally uses spankings as a form of punishment.”
“Now you really sound like your brother,” I reply before I can stop myself.
The crunch of my back molars is nowhere near as damaging as it could be when Mikhail asks, “Am I meant to take that as a compliment?”
“No,” I reply honestly. “But you need to come up with your own material. You’re one infringement away from a copyright claim.”
He howls like a wolf. I only get to bask in its brilliance for mere seconds. My phone has plenty of battery. It is just no longer in my possession since it is plucked from my grasp seconds after I arrive at the bus stop—stolen along with my purse and the last of my cash.
“Hey!” I scream at the man dressed head to toe in black sprinting in the direction I just came.
I’m about to take off after him, when the faintest sob stops me in my tracks. A woman is crouched next to the scratched display banner edging a recently graffitied bench.
The remnants of the streetlight that usually keep incidents like this on the other side of Myasnikov dot her nonslip work shoes, and the camera dome is covered with more spray paint than the bench she should be seated on.
My heart squeezes when I notice her cheeks are ashen and wet. Nasty red welts circle her wrists and neckline, announcing that the perp stole more than her phone and purse. He took every possession she owned—including her sanity.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, bending down until we’re eye level.
She must have fought her attacker. Her eye is swelling with a fresh bruise, and numerous grazes scrape her legs and arms not covered by her maid’s outfit.
Her tremors shudder through me as well as I scan the area, seeking help. When my search comes up empty, I stray my eyes to the emergency assistance button at the end of the stop.
“I’ll be right back.”
The dark-haired woman shoots her eyes in the direction I’m peering for merely a second before she murmurs, “No. No police. Please.” She seems more scared now. “I-I—”
“It’s okay,” I assure her again, understanding her apprehension. The people who are meant to be the safe option often do not prove they are. “Can you stand?”
“Yes. I th-think so,” she stammers out slowly before her work shoes crunch the shards of plastic scattered around her.
“Just take it slow,” I plead when she almost tumbles. She’s woozy, and I believe the blood seeping from the back of her head is responsible for that. “There’s a hospital—”
“No hospital. I j-just need to get home.”
“Okay,” I repeat, even aware it isn’t the answer I should be giving. “Can I help you?” When apprehension is the first thing to cross her face, I say, “I’m here to take the bus home as well. We’re probably going in the same direction.” Her maid’s outfit announces she doesn’t belong in this area of Myasnikov any more than I do. “So it won’t be any bother.”