Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Oh, God,” I pant, shaking from the aftermath of the orgasm. “God.”
The car cruises to a stop and he scowls at me. “Don’t make me regret that, Calina.”
I’m still shaking when he helps me out of the car. I blink at the crowd of people. My mind is slightly more focused than it was before, but now I feel every nerve when I move. Cameras flash and whispered voices surround us. Most are in Russian, but I am able to translate a few whispered phrases.
Demyan Federov.
Future wife.
Bratva.
I hold onto his arm out of self-preservation. He tucks me to his side and slides one arm across my shoulders. Shielding me. Holding me. Still tender from the events of the day, I let him.
“Cast your eyes down,” he whispers. “Remember, you know no Russian.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
The stimulator vibrates. I whimper, still so fresh from my recent orgasm, I’m too tender for this. He isn’t going to make this easy. He knows exactly what the hell he’s doing. He warned me earlier that I needed to behave, and this was the best way he could come up with to ensure my obedience.
I follow his lead into the museum, still holding onto him for stability and protection. There are dozens and dozens of people, all paired couples, all as elegantly dressed as I am, but no man is more attractive than the man whose arm I hold. None have his stature and presence, the fiery blue eyes or hardened jaw. None have his powerful physique, and I’m not the only one who notices. I don’t miss the way the ladies look at Demyan. I don’t miss the way they part for us, giving us wide berth, while surreptitiously sneaking glances at my striking captor.
Dressed impeccably in a fine suit, he holds himself erect. The cut of the fabric can’t hide the breadth of his shoulders, his tattooed neck, his chiseled masculine features. With his dark blond hair and the vibrant blue of his eyes, I’m reminded once more of a fallen angel. To my chagrin, my heartbeat accelerates when he draws me close to him. He may be an arrogant asshole, but he’s stunning.
I blink in surprise when I realize we’ve been led to an entryway in the museum featuring a large display of icons hung on stark white walls. They startle me, somehow inharmonious among the elegance.
“Sit,” Demyan orders in English, pulling out a chair for me at a small circular table. I obey, but my eyes are still searching out the icons. Sober faces, and darkly colored, some gleam and some are a matte finish, but all have similar facial features. One, a solider with a sword, complete with powerful, inhuman wings, catches my attention. He holds the sword at the throat of a demon.
“Who is that?” I ask. Demyan removes two flutes of wine from a silver tray and hands one to me.
“Take your time with that,” he admonishes, before he looks to where I’m pointing. “That’s Saint Michael, the archangel.”
I frown. “Why would an angel have a sword?” I ask.
“To fight, of course. Saint Michael the archangel avenges God.” His lip curls. Is he mocking me, or the very idea of avenging a God he doesn’t believe in?
It surprises me that he knows about church things, but I know very little about his upbringing. His past.
“Does he?”
He merely nods.
“Do you know a lot about icons?”
“More than I’d like to admit,” he says.
“And why’s that?”
He takes a long pull from his glass before he responds. “Because they remind me of my mother. She taught me.” But the clench of his jaw forbids me from asking any further questions. Why would religious icons remind him of his mother?
Demyan smiles easily at the people who approach us and introduces me as his nevesta.
His fiancée.
Somehow, hearing him say those words makes me a little uneasy. I smile while he tells people I don’t speak Russian, and feign complete ignorance when I hear them talking about us. He stands a few feet apart from me, talking to a group of men, and I’m pretending I’m looking at the icons. I overhear a few women behind me talking about him in low tones, likely thinking I don’t hear a word they say, and though I don’t understand much, I gather they’re not saying anything they could repeat in polite society.
I’m casually looking at one woman dressed in red who’s taller and more voluptuous than I am. I’m struck with her elegance and beauty, the upsweep of her thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes, her creamy complexion and exquisite features. Unlike my muted looks, hers are bold and fierce, with dark eye makeup and vivid crimson lipstick. She’s eyeing Demyan as if she wants to eat him with a fucking spoon. My fingers clench around the stem of the champagne flute when suddenly a jolt of electricity zings through my panties. I gasp and almost lose my champagne, my head whipping around to Demyan. He’s smiling at the man in front of him but his hand is in his pocket.