Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Drink,” he orders, thrusting bottle of water at me. I take it gratefully and must wince when I hold it without realizing it because he frowns. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
I look down at my palm. The splinter from earlier is tightly wedged beneath the flesh, the skin around it raw, red, and swollen.
“Maldita sea,” I curse under my breath. “I got a splinter in the damn loft.” I give him a smile. “I was so distracted by your enjoyably effective methods of torture that I forgot all about it.”
Frowning, he stands and lifts his phone again, barking out another order.
“Do you always talk to your staff like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like they personally offended you, and if they don’t do what you say, you’ll kill them?” I smile sweetly and take another gulp of water before eyeing the food on the tray—bread, butter, and a wedge of cheese. Typical prisoner food, but with flair.
“I don’t get offended. That’s childish and a waste of time. As far as doing what I say, they know better. Now eat.” His tone is gruff. “We’ll eat a proper breakfast after you rest, but you need to eat something now.”
“Fattening me up for the kill?” I ask sweetly before I slather butter on the bread and take a large bite. My mouth waters, and my belly churns. The past month before I came here, I put myself on a strict diet regimen so I could shred. I haven’t eaten bread in ages.
His expression remains stern, but there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Just eat. You need your strength. We have a long day ahead of us.”
The effort of holding my head up is becoming too much, and though I’d never let him know it, even talking is exhausting to me now. I enjoy the simple food, even under his impassive, penetrating gaze.
He doesn’t talk or ask questions, and for that, I’m thankful. After I have food and water in my belly, I lie back on the couch. It’s warm in here, and I’m so damn tired. My back and ass ache from where he struck me, and this damn splinter—
“Give me your hand.” My eyes fly open. I didn’t even realize I’d closed them, and I have no recollection of him retrieving first aid supplies, but here we are.
I let my eyes close again and give him my hand. My eyes are so heavy. Did he drug me? I don’t even care at this point. I need rest, and tomorrow, I’ll make my next move.
His warm, rough hand holds mine. It hurts like fuck when he opens my palm, so I crack an eye open, but I don’t flinch. I’m not afraid of pain or discomfort. I’ve learned to cope with both. Instead, I eye him curiously as he pokes at my palm with metal tweezers.
The painfully reddened skin screams as he digs in deep, but I don’t move. I watch his concerted effort, the way his brows snap together.
“Don’t take this as me hitting on you, but you really are the most handsome of all your brothers. Do you know that, or are you one of those guys who has no idea he’s gorgeous?”
The Romanov men are delicious specimens of masculine perfection, and their one sister is absolutely stunning. But this guy… there’s something about his brooding countenance, the warmth in his eyes, the fullness of his stern mouth and the coiled strength in his muscled body that checks off all my boxes.
I hiss in a breath when he finally grasps the splinter in the tweezers and yanks it out, but a second later, there’s almost instant relief. I let out my breath slowly.
“Looks are fleeting,” he says with a shrug. “We’ll all be worm food one day.” He dabs disinfectant on my palm before he slides a bandage on it.
I close my eyes and snicker. “Worm food. I like that.” It’s like a pragmatic way of living the whole YOLO thing. If you only live once, you might as well make the most of it.
I close my eyes, and my head falls back. I’m so damn tired. I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute. He’s saying something to me, but his voice is distant. It sounds like I’m underwater, and he’s talking above me.
Something warm and soft falls over me. My subconscious starts putting pieces and parts together.
The Romanovs. I’m alive. My brother. The cartel. Power.
Visions of weddings and rings and crowns fill my head, and I fall into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lev
I glance at the clock and stifle a groan. Nine a.m.
I can’t keep doing this, sleeping in shitty positions and places just to keep an eye on her. I have things to do, and keeping tabs on her, even if I have the help of my team, simply will not work.