Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Oh.”
“What did you think?” he says, his voice dark.
I don’t reply but follow him quietly as he carries Ania to her bedroom. I wait outside the room, moving from foot to foot, too full of anxious energy. When Mikhail emerges, he’s got that same look on his face, like he knows precisely what I was thinking.
He takes my hand, then moves closer to me, gently pushing me against the wall. His warm breath caresses me as he leans down, whispering temptingly over my skin. “I thought you’d forgotten I existed,” he says, smirking, then presses his lips against mine.
I savor the kiss for way too long. How could I do anything else? Then I remember my note.
“I found the address,” I tell him.
Mikhail’s eyes sparkle with … pride? Nobody’s ever looked at me like that except for Mikhail. It makes me think I’m worth something and can make a positive difference. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself into believing this world isn’t as dark as it is.
“Tell me,” Mikhail says.
Reaching into my pocket, I hand him the piece of paper. “Artyom Dragomirov links to the Serbians who attacked Dimitri. He might also have a connection to my dad.”
“I’ll call Dimitri.”
“Are you going to the city with him?”
Mikhail shakes his head.
“Why?”
Suddenly, he’s close to me again. His warm body presses against mine so I can feel all the passion coursing through him. It’s like any second, he will set his clothes on fire.
“Do you even have to ask that?” he says fiercely, smoothing his hand over my hip. He pulls in a trembling, husky breath, and I know he’s struggling not to kiss me again. “I need to call Dimitri.”
“I’ll be in my room,” I murmur.
Mikhail smirks. “Is that a hint?”
Say no, but I can’t listen to the reasonable voice in my head. I feel like I’m on a high after all these hours of work finally paying off. “Maybe … maybe not.”
He laughs in that deep, attractive way. “I’m going to ignore the not part.”
“I think that should creep me out.”
“Should,” he repeats, with a classic Mikhail smirk, still with that pride burning in his eyes.
He turns and strides down the hallway, almost as if he wants to get away from me as quickly as possible. I go to my bedroom and sit on the bed, wondering if I should put on something sexy, wondering if it’s okay to forget about everything else and throw myself into the steaminess.
A moment later, there’s a knock at my door. That was quick. My legs tremble as I walk toward it. I wonder if he’ll leap on me the moment I open it, all his savage lust stowed up and ready to be unleashed.
But when I open the door, there’s a sweaty, greasy hand over my mouth. A man I don’t recognize growls something that I’m too panicked to hear and then shuts the door behind him. He drives me across the room as my heart pounds unhelpfully, and my chest feels like it’s going to cave in.
He holds me against the wall, his hand getting tighter on my mouth, his eyes wide and cruel and ready to do severe damage. “Tonight’s the night, slut. We’re taking Dimitri’s new bitch back to Daddy.” I try to speak, but he squeezes his hand tighter around my face, hurting my jaw. “You don’t need to say a goddamn thing. You only need to do what you’re told. Otherwise, what do you think will happen to little Anatoly? Or you, hmm? What the fuck do you think will happen?”
There’s another knock at the door. The man lowers his voice. “I’ve got a gun. Make an excuse. Make him leave, or I’ll kill you both on the spot.”
He lets me go and then quietly walks into the en suite. When he shuts the door, I try to make myself brave. I try to make myself into the person I wish I were, but I can’t stop thinking about the threat. I can still taste the man’s hand: the salt, the grease, the sickness.
When I open the door, I raise my hand to stop Mikhail. He goes to kiss me immediately but stops when he bumps into my hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired,” I say quickly. “I’m just so, so tired. I’m sorry.”
“Are you okay? Mila, it looks like you’ve been cry—”
“I’m just tired, okay?” I snap. “Please, Mikhail.”
“What is it?”
I can’t lie to him, so I tell him a half-truth. “It’s my brother, Drake. I’m just so worried about him. Please.”
He tries to embrace me again, and I push my hand against his chest. If I let him hold me, it would be far too easy to collapse against him, to reveal everything, to beg him to help me. But what if the man, whoever he is, is telling the truth? What if he just kills us both?