Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
One vicious snarl is all it takes for the goon to remove his gun and raise his hands in the air. It is too late for him, though. A second after he slumps back in his chair, hopeful his silent apologies are enough, Kirill blinks once. I assume it is a natural occurring reaction when fear is induced, but I soon learn otherwise when Watermelon Head inflicts a large gash to the goon’s neck. It squirts blood on my face and reminds me that I am nothing but a commodity to these men.
He was taken down as warned, and Kirill shows not an ounce of remorse. All that projects from his face is anger when he locks his narrowed eyes with me and snarls, “New rules.”
With a flick of his wrist, the fleet of SUVs stops, and a goon in the car in front of us slips out of his seat. He isn’t alone. He is clutching a frail blonde’s hair, dragging her from her seat as remorsefully as Kirill wishes he could handle me.
My unborn child is the only thing keeping me alive.
“You act out…” He doesn’t finalize his threat but simply does a meager wrist flick, and once again, someone else suffers the consequences of my actions.
After knocking her off her feet with a backhanded slap, the goon seemingly reading Kirill’s thoughts pops a bullet in the blonde’s head, stilling her movements immediately.
While grinning like a man without a heart, Kirill shifts his focus back to me. “Do I make myself clear, Little Lamb.” He looks like he ate raw liver while muttering my nickname. “Or shall we go another round?”
Despite the wish to continue rebelling, my chin quivers when I recognize the blonde they choose next.
Anastasia.
“I will do as asked.”
“What was that?” He heard me, he’s just being a jerk.
I wipe the blood from my teeth with my tongue before repeating, “I will do as asked.”
He waits a beat before dipping his chin then righting himself in his seat. “Very well. Continue.”
The goodbye wave I give Anastasia when our SUV careens around hers is pathetic, but since it is all I have to offer her in reassurance, I don’t keep it from her.
It could be the last gesture we exchange.
The mansion we arrive at forty-five minutes later isn’t as large as the one in Russia, but it has ample bedrooms with sturdy locks and thick walls. It means only the quietest of whimpers will ripple through the wallpapered walls instead of the moans, groans, and sobs I heard on the ship at all hours of the day and night.
I doubt I’ll have time to unwrap what happened earlier today until tonight.
A second after being pushed through the entryway, I’m shoved into a room, told to unpack, then informed dinner will be served within the hour.
Since my door has the most locks on it, I assume my meals will be brought to me, so you can picture my shock when someone knocks on my door a short time later and says, “Dining room in ten.”
I stare at the shadow under my door, certain it is a trick, before sheepishly replying, “I eat in my room.”
“Not tonight you’re not. Dining room in ten.” My mood is so unbalanced, I almost argue. The only reason I don’t is from the unnamed man’s reminder that I am nothing but an incubator for Kirill. “And he wants you in a fitted white dress. You’ll find it in the wardrobe.”
While building up the courage to open it, I peer at the closet. If it is anything like the one in Russia, it will be filled with pretty things I’m not allowed to wear.
Shockingly, I’m wrong. One dress is dangling in the middle. It is similar to the one I wore at my ‘wedding’ except it is minus the tulle that lit up in the church’s many lights.
Once I’ve squeezed into the dress two sizes too small, I brush my hair, dab my lips with gloss, then walk to the door to wait for someone to collect me.
When twenty minutes pass without a single knock, my inquisitiveness gets the best of me. I test the lock, gasping when it opens without the usual clang of locks. My tour through the mansion was quick, but I caught sight of a dining room at the bottom of the stairwell, so I head in that direction before realizing my walk isn’t shadowed by the usual goons who follow me. They’re still present but mingling toward the back like they’re not documenting my every move.
My hope that a MIB neuralyzer wiped the memories of every man in this mansion is dashed when my arrival at the bottom of the stairs sees me greeted by Kirill as if I am his wife. “Here she is. The lady of the hour.”