Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“How? Say it.”
She cries harder but pushes on.
“Rape. Repeatedly. There was nowhere for me to escape. I told my brother and he said I was a liar, and when Andros found out I told my brother, he cut me.”
I sit up in bed, taking her with me. I feel my whole body tense and chill at once.
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
She breathes out, “Would you really?” It shouldn’t surprise me that there’s both awe and hope in her voice. “You hardly even know me, though,” she muses, but when her tear-filled eyes meet mine once more, her gaze pierces my soul. “I want him dead. I want to go to bed at night knowing that he can’t find me again. That he won’t do again what he’s done before.” Closing her eyes, she breathes in and out before repeating, “Would you really, Tomas?”
“Of course, I would. No one hurts my wife.”
“I wasn’t your wife when he hurt me.”
“Irrelevant. He’ll suffer for what he’s done, but I’ll need more details.” I’ll need to know everything.
“Tomas… you do know that you’ll start a war between brotherhoods?”
“I do.”
My blood pounds furiously in my veins, searing and destructive, annihilating reason and logic. I will murder the motherfucking bastard who hurt my wife.
Rape.
Repeatedly.
“Any bastard who would do that deserves to be on the frontline in a Bratva war,” I tell her. “And your brother is a douchebag for not murdering him with his own hands. Both deserve to die. They both will.”
“He will,” she says quietly. “We all do eventually.” Her voice fades to a whisper, contemplative and thoughtful, and I tighten my grip around her.
I’ll assemble my men. I will have the truth.
And I will end them.
Chapter 12
Caroline
I wake the next day before Tomas, my entire body wracked with pain.
I remember the night before when I reach a hand to my head. It feels like someone’s pounding it against a wall, over, and over, and over again.
Great.
I can hear him breathing heavily beside me, and one of his massive arms is strewn crazily about my lower back. Though I’m awake, I close my eyes and rest in this moment. This bed is massive and luxurious, soft but firm, the sheets like satin. And I’m tired. I yawn and take inventory of my body.
My head isn’t the only thing that hurts. My butt aches from being spanked, but there’s more. Even though Tomas is a dominant, chest-beating alpha male, who does expect nothing short of full obedience, I’ve learned in this short timeframe that he can also make being dominated sexy as hell. How? I have no idea. But I have some vague notion of handcuffs and spanking as being sexy to some people. Am I one of those people? I didn’t think so, until Tomas showed me otherwise. And if I’m honest, I’m eager for him to show me more.
My association with sex is anything but pleasurable. I want to view it differently. I want to learn to enjoy what should be pleasurable.
My core is mildly sore, and I feel dampness between my legs. I’m lying here naked, next to a man I hardly know, and for a moment, I panic. Why am I wet between my legs? Did I start my period? Oh, God, that would be terrible. But a quick inspection shows me it’s only… him. I swallow.
He used a condom, but those aren’t foolproof...
Shit.
My period is due in a few days, so I think I can’t get pregnant now anyway. But still. This is something we need to discuss.
But it isn’t until I open my eyes and bright sunlight blinds me that I groan out loud.
“What is it, sweetheart? Are you alright?” Tomas’ voice is low and husky, and it does something to my heart, but I push it away. I can’t let myself go all female and flirty now, because I’m gonna die.
“My head,” I groan. I lie flat on my back and don’t move, my eyes closed tightly. If I lie still enough, I don’t feel like I’ll vomit.
“Ahh,” he says as the truth dawns on him. "We have an expression in Russia. ‘What is good for a Russian in the evening is bad for him in the morning.’” With my eyes shut tight, I don’t see him, but his voice is near, and I can feel the warmth of his body drawing closer to me.
“Is that, like, your mother’s saying or something?” I ask with a sigh.
“Not my mother’s,” he responds. “But it is an old Russian proverb. You had too much to drink last night. I shouldn’t have allowed it. I won’t again.”
“Stop talking,” I moan. “It hurts to listen. Oh, God, I think I’m going to throw up.” I sit up in bed and the room swirls around me, but he holds me to him.
“Breathe in through your nose,” he says. I obey. “Now out through your mouth.” Thankfully, the nausea passes. “Lie back down and don’t open your eyes,” he says. “I’ll get something that will help.” He steps into the other room.