Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I’ve made this argument before, and it’s as ineffective now as it was then. Nikolai’s expression hardens further, a savage intensity entering his gaze. “You’re not leaving. The guards will stop you if you try.”
So it is true then. I didn’t misinterpret his refusal to let me out of the car. I am his prisoner.
The knowledge fills me with equal parts dread and relief. It’s out in the open now; we’re done pretending. Of course he’s not going to let me go. I know his family’s awful secret. I’ve seen him kill with my own eyes. The crimes he’s committed would land an ordinary man in an electric chair, but Nikolai Molotov is too rich, too powerful—and more importantly, too ruthless—to ever have to pay for what he’s done.
Whatever his intentions had been toward me before Alina’s revelations, there’s only one thing he can do now.
Detain me. Keep me where I can never reveal what I know.
At least I hope that’s the only course of action he’s considering. Because there’s a much more efficient way to ensure my silence, the one my biological father appears to have chosen.
But no. It might be naïve of me, but I can’t bring myself to believe that Nikolai would kill me. Not with the potent, emotionally charged connection that sizzles between us. Not when he’s gone to so much trouble to save my life.
And that’s the thing, I realize, staring at his implacable expression. That’s why, in a twisted way, it’s a relief to know I can’t leave. I should want to leave. I should want to run as far as possible from this dangerous man and the fixation he seems to have on me. But I don’t want to. Not deep down, where it matters—and it’s not just because of the stupid crush I’ve developed on him.
The truth is, I’m not brave and strong. I learned that today when I came face to face with death, when I felt the bullet tear through my flesh and looked into the assassin’s empty eyes. I’d come close to dying before—the time I’d hidden in Mom’s coat closet after finding her body, the night I’d woken up to scratching sounds at the door of my Airbnb, the couple of times the assassins had nearly run me over with their car, and the time they’d shot at me in Boise—but I had never known such prolonged, nauseating terror as when I was driving my rickety Toyota on that pothole-ridden dirt road with the bullets whining past my ears.
I don’t want to die. I’m nowhere near ready to die—and I know that however ruthless of a killer Nikolai is, he doesn’t wish me dead. The opposite, in fact.
He’s promising to protect me.
To keep me captive and protect me.
I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “May I please have a sip of water? I’m thirsty.”
The fierce expression on Nikolai’s face eases. “Of course, zaychik. And you must be hungry, too. I’ll get you dinner in a moment.” Leaning over me, he arranges the pillows in a mound and gently props me up against it.
My breath catches at his nearness, even as my arm throbs harder at the movement, making me glad I didn’t attempt this on my own.
I must’ve grimaced anyway, because he smooths my hair off my face, looking concerned. “Do you want a painkiller?” he asks, and I shake my head as he brings a cup of water with a straw to my lips.
The pain is not unbearable, and I want to keep my wits about me for now.
I suck down the entire cup, and when I finish, I become aware of another pressing need. “Um…” My face burns as I force myself to sit up, ignoring the spike of pain accompanying the movement. “I actually need…”
“The bathroom? Of course.” He scoops me up and carries me to the adjoining bathroom, where he carefully sets me on my feet in front of the toilet. “Do you want some help here?”
“I’ve got it, thank you.” I could’ve walked here on my own too—or at least limped—but it’s probably best that I rest my injured ankle. Besides, some weak, needy part of me is enjoying his tender care, reveling in his nearness, his strength, his obvious worry for me.
He can’t be a complete psychopath if he cares for me like this, can he?
“All right,” he says, though his gaze is still filled with concern. “Don’t lock the door and call me if you need anything, okay?”
At my murmured agreement, he drops a light kiss on my forehead and walks out, closing the door behind him.
I do my business as quickly as I can—which isn’t quick at all, as I only have one arm to work with—then I limp over to the sink to wash my hands. The reflection in the mirror makes me wince. I can’t believe Nikolai wanted to kiss me earlier. I look like a hot mess, all scratched up and bruised, my hair limp and matted. And… is that a twig by my ear?