Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
My world’s an upside-down mess. It’s not supposed to be like this. I blink back tears, fighting to stay in control. Home should be safe. My room should be my sanctuary.
They shouldn’t get to me here.
Except they’re trying anyway.
“Pisik, listen to me,” Tigran says, his voice raspy and tired.
I talk over him. “You need to take these three now. Then the antibiotic is four times a day for ten days. I’ll set alarms to remind you. The pain pills can be taken every six hours—”
“Dasha,” he says, sharper now.
I don’t look at him. I keep my chin up and my back straight. Act prim, act correct. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
“Baby.” His tone softens. “Listen to me.”
“Please, just take your pills.”
“I want you to sleep with me tonight. Will you do that for me?”
My shoulders tense. I can’t look at him. Tears fill my eyes again, but I shove them back. A good girl doesn’t cry. A proper lady keeps it together.
But I’m not proper. I’m not good. I’m a fucking wreck and barely holding on.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Please, baby. I need you tonight.” He reaches out a hand.
I put the pills in his palm, blinking away my tears and swallowing against them. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Just for tonight,” he says, taking his medication without any water. “Now, please, baby, come into bed with me.”
I finally let go. I crawl in beside him, slipping under the covers, and curl up at his side. He grunts as he reaches over to the light switch beside the headboard and snaps it off.
The room plunges into darkness.
I listen to him breathing as I snuggle in closer to his warmth. They’re outside. They’re trying to break in. All my safety is gone. It was never real to begin with.
“I got you,” he whispers in the blackness, pulling me back to him. “And you have me. We’re in this together, right, baby?”
I nod against him. I can’t speak, or else I might cry, which is so pathetic.
He’s the one that got shot, so why is he the one doing the comforting?
I need to be stronger for him. Even if I feel like the foundation on which I’ve built my entire life is melting away, there’s still Tigran, his strong hands, his steady chest. I can hold on to him and give him something to hold on to in return.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, holding me close. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you too,” I say, leaning up to kiss his chin.
He smiles, eyelids heavy and drooping, as the medicine does its work and drags him into sleep. I stay awake a while longer in a strange bed in a strange room, listening to my strange husband take rattling breaths and wonder when the outside will crack through my shell and swallow me whole.
Then, almost as I’m about to drift off, he makes a sound. I lean closer to him, listening. “Tigran?” I whisper, reaching up to touch his face.
He lets out a soft groan. It’s obvious he’s still asleep; the pills must’ve been stronger than we thought.
But he says it again. And this time, I hear it clearly.
“Natalia,” he whispers.
I go very still. The room feels small.
Who the hell is Natalia?
Chapter 22
Dasha
Ileap out of bed to the sound of hammers destroying my brain.
Wait, no, not my brain—destroying a freaking wall.
“Tigran?” I look around wildly before hurrying into the hell between our suites. The door’s open, and the noise is coming from my room. “Tigran!”
I find my husband hunched over a window, whacking the frame with a hammer. Three of his guards are lurking behind him, each looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. All four men turn in my direction, and the hammer lingers in the air for one brief moment before my husband crashes it down again and breaks off the lower sill.
“That’s how it’s fucking done,” he says, grimacing in pain as he raises the hammer again.
“Absolutely fucking not,” I say and storm over to him, beyond livid. He grunts in surprise as I grab his elbow. “What the hell are you thinking right now?”
“You’re cursing,” he says, highly amused. “I don’t think I’ve heard you curse like that before.”
“Then listen to me now, you stupid motherfucker, because this is the dumbest goddamn shit I’ve ever fucking seen.” I turn to the guards. “And you two, what were you thinking? Your boss got shot and stabbed last night, and you’re letting him do manual fucking labor?”
“Sorry,” one of them mutters, and the other has the good sense to look equally ashamed.
I turn back to my idiot husband, and he’s grinning like this is some big joke. Except I don’t find it funny at all. I nearly lost him last night, and the idea of letting him hurt himself all over again because he wants to do some stupid and ill-advised home improvement project is absolutely maddening.