Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Two deaths on my conscience is plenty.
All of my friends are convinced I’m either asexual or a closet lesbian, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I want sexual intimacy with a man. I crave it. Half the time, when I wake up in the morning, it’s with the sheets tangled around my legs and my hands pressing between my thighs in a futile effort to quench the ache pulsing deep inside.
I’m eighteen and I’ve never been kissed, never been touched outside of that brief dance with poor Josh—may his remains rest in peace wherever they are.
“I can talk to Alexei,” Nikolai says, his jaw set dangerously. “There’s no reason for her to deal with that asshole. He’ll back down. I’ll make him.”
“Not a good idea,” Valery says, as icy calm as always. “He hates all three of us and will press ahead with the announcement just to spite us. We’ll need serious leverage before we bring it up with him.” He looks at our oldest brother. “Konstantin, maybe you can—”
“It’s fine,” I say and take a breath. “I’ll talk to Alexei myself.”
As much as I want to let my brothers fight my battle, I know Valery is right. There’s bad blood between our families, always has been, and it wouldn’t take more than a spark to blow apart the fragile rapport Papa has established with Boris Leonov. Not that I care about Papa’s agenda or anything along those lines. I’m just worried that if Nikolai or Valery try to strong-arm Alexei with Konstantin’s help, it could backfire, and instead of the betrothal announcement getting postponed, I might find myself stolen away and married tomorrow.
The Leonovs are capable of anything and everything.
“Are you sure?” Konstantin asks, frowning at me. “He’s—”
“It’s fine.” It’s not—nothing about this is fine—but I don’t want my brothers dragged into my mess. At least not if I can handle it myself by growing some balls.
So what if Alexei is the man who haunts my dreams and nightmares? The one I can’t help thinking about each time I bring myself to the very edge of ecstasy, only to back off? I can still talk to him, make him see reason. No matter how he acted the night of that dance, he probably doesn’t want to be betrothed to me either and would welcome the opportunity to postpone the announcement indefinitely—if I approach him the right way.
“All right,” Nikolai says. “But let us know if he’s being difficult.”
“Don’t worry.” I smooth my damp palms over my dress and lift my chin, ignoring the heavy pounding of my heart. “I’ve got this.”
After all, I’m a Molotov as well.
The party is everything my parents hoped it would be—a spectacle so over-the-top it’ll be talked about in Moscow for years to come. The glitterati have turned out in full force. In addition to high-ranking government officials and local business moguls, attendees include international movie stars and supermodels, American tech billionaires, Italian fashion designers, and famous artists of all kinds. Every female’s neck and earlobes sport jewelry pieces worth more than most people’s houses, and the glamorous gowns and tuxedos filling the giant ballroom easily top what’s seen and drooled over at the Oscars. The entertainment is equally impressive. A famous Russian band is performing live throughout the night, and at midnight, Beyoncé will appear to sing one of her hits, followed by several other international pop stars. There will also be a dance performed by Bolshoi Ballet and an hour-long aerial acrobatics show by Cirque du Soleil.
Under other circumstances, I’d enjoy all of it, but with the conversation with Alexei hanging over my head, it’s all I can do to smile, shake hands, and exchange air kisses with the well-wishers. It seems as if everyone wants to talk to me, to comment on my gown, my jewelry, my looks. I field joking and not-so-joking inquiries about my dating life from friends and strangers alike—apparently, everybody thinks I should be paired up by now—and answer all sorts of probing questions about my post-graduation plans.
Why, yes, I’m starting at Columbia this fall. No, I didn’t consider a university in Paris. Thank you, but I have no interest in Fashion Design as a major. Economics and PoliSci, like Nikolai? No, that’s not really my cup of tea either. I’m more interested in Computer Science, like Konstantin.
Even as I say all this, I can’t help wondering if any of it is true. Am I starting at Columbia in a few weeks? Will I be able to study what I want? Live in New York City like I want? Because there’s a very real chance all of my plans are about to crash and burn. I’ve been making decisions about my future as if the betrothal contract didn’t exist and my life were my own, but that’s not the case. On paper, I belong to Alexei, and he could insist I attend a university in Moscow to be closer to him, or even not go to college at all. Of course, I have no intention of letting him dictate my life, but if my parents don’t side with me—and they’ve given zero indication that they would—it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make Columbia happen.