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)
My looks. Of course, what else? He doesn’t want me. Nobody actually wants me. They want the pretty outer shell, the face and the body and the unique combination of genetics that’s given the Molotovs this deceptively appealing façade. Eve’s apples, my grandmother called us, an unbearable temptation that lures the innocent into a world of violence and sin. Not that Alexei is innocent in any way.
Like me, he was born into this dark world of ours.
Unlike me, he’s embraced it fully.
The reminder is like a splash of icy water in my face. Stiffening my spine, I back out of his reach. “Well, I don’t want this betrothal. Does that not matter to you?”
To my dismay, my voice shakes, the lingering heat of his touch unsettling me nearly as much as the burning hunger with which he watches my retreat. Equally disturbing is the knowledge that we’re all alone in this room, that if he decides he wants me now, there’s little I can do to stop him.
Sure enough, he comes after me. Instinctively, I back away, but he keeps coming until my back is against a wall and there’s nowhere to run. But he’s still not satisfied. He braces his hands on either side of me, caging me in as he leans closer. “Why not?” His voice is dangerously soft. “Why don’t you want our betrothal?”
I stare up at him, struck dumb by the question. “Because I… because I don’t.” I’ve never thought about it in any sort of depth, but then again, why would I? One doesn’t need a reason to not want a hurricane to strike—or to not be forced into a marriage with a man whose family is rumored to be even worse than mine. Boris Leonov is famous for his creative torture methods, and given what happened with Josh and my tutor, I know Alexei isn’t all that different.
If I were to ever marry—and that’s a big if—I’d want a husband who’s the complete opposite of my father, not someone who’s even darker and more brutal.
Alexei leans in even closer, until his face is mere inches above mine and I can smell that subtle masculine cologne he wears, the one that makes me think of winter forests in the depths of night. “That’s not an answer. What is it that you’re objecting to? Me or the idea of marriage?”
“B-both.” Dammit, why did I stutter? Fighting the urge to shrink back from his intense stare, I add in a steadier voice, “I don’t want to marry, and I definitely don’t want you.”
“No?” Bending his elbow to lean on one forearm, he lifts his other hand off the wall to trail his fingertips over my jaw. A cruel curve appears on his lips as my breath catches in my throat, my body once again igniting from his touch. “You don’t want me at all, Alinyonok? Not even a little bit?”
I don’t trust my vocal cords to work, so I attempt a headshake. My heart is pounding so hard I’m certain he can hear it, and my skin is on fire where he’s touched it and all around. Worse yet, I can feel an insidious slickness drenching my core, dampening the silky fabric of my panties. That empty, pulsing ache that plagues me so frequently these days is sharper than ever, making me want to squeeze my thighs together to relieve the worst of it. Except that wouldn’t help, I know, and neither would pressing my hand against the spot where the ache originates. I need more, crave more—such as his hand there—but even with the pills clouding my mind, I know I can’t give in to the urgings of my body.
Not if I want my freedom.
His smile turns crueler yet, even as savage hunger burns in his eyes. “Prove it then. Prove that you don’t want me, and I’ll let you walk away. Forever, if you want to.”
Forever? As in… he’ll let me out of the betrothal?
My heart throbs in my throat as I stare up at him, overwhelmed by a wild mixture of emotions. If it’s true, if he means it… “Prove it how?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “A kiss.” His voice roughens. “One proper kiss, that’s all.”
Oh, fuck. My head swims as a violent wave of heat washes over me and the ache between my legs intensifies. A kiss. It shouldn’t be a big deal—probably wouldn’t be for any other girl my age—but for me, it’s Mount Everest.
It would be my very first kiss, something I’ve dreamed and fantasized about for years.
It would also play right into his hands because as inexperienced as I am, I know what my body’s reactions signify. Physically, I want him. No matter how hard I’ve tried to fight it, his face is the one I always see in those fantasies of mine, his lips the ones I dream about when I envision my first kiss.