Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“Speak,” he says grimly. “You have ten minutes before we need to be back for the announcement.”
“Right, about that… I have some good news.” I take a deep breath in an effort to rein in my runaway pulse. The only good thing about all the adrenaline flooding my system is that it’s counteracting the fuzziness from the pills. I am making sense right now. I think. Regardless, I plow on. “My father is on board with postponing the announcement.”
Alexei’s eyes narrow. “What?”
“Yeah, isn’t that great?” I lock my hands together in front of my ribcage to stop them from shaking. The ring presses into my skin, all cold metal and hard diamond. “He’s leaving it up to us to decide the timing, which is the right thing, don’t you think? That way, we can postpone the announcement for now and—”
“For now?”
“Or for a while.” I swallow. “What’s the rush, right? I’m sure you have better things to do at this stage of your life than deal with a fiancée who’s been forced on you. Our parents, they’re so medieval in their thinking, so—”
“We’re not postponing a fucking thing.” His jaw flexes dangerously. “If your father thinks he can welsh on the agreement—”
“No, no—no one’s talking about that.” At least not yet. I drag in another breath and drop my hands to my sides, consciously uncurling my fingers. I need to appear calm and rational, not scared and defensive. “Please, Alexei, listen to me. We have a choice now, you and I. We can decide what we want, not our parents.”
His nostrils flare. “And what you want is to postpone the announcement?”
Fuck. This is going so much worse than I’d hoped. I’m not getting through to him. “We both want that. I’m sure you don’t want to be engaged to me. You don’t even know me.”
He arches his eyebrows. “Don’t I?” He advances on me, each step reminding me of a wolf’s determined stalk. “I’ve been getting daily reports on you for the past three years. I know what you eat and how long you sleep, what you wear and which video games you play. I know all about your friends and your teachers… and your little cannabis hobby.” Stopping in front of me, he smiles darkly at my stunned reaction. “Yes, it’s true. You have no secrets from me, Alinyonok. I know about all of it—even the two pills you took an hour ago for your headache.”
I should be freaking out over this heinous invasion of my privacy and its even more horrific implications, but my mind latches on to the most insignificant detail of all: the way he said my name. Most Russian names, mine included, have several informal variations, but nobody’s ever called me Alinyonok. It sounds very close to olenyonok—baby fawn—and on anyone else’s lips, it would make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
But not on his. Never on his.
He doesn’t get to call me something so soft and tender—not when there isn’t an ounce of tenderness in his murderous black soul.
I’m about to light into him with that when I realize the drug might still be scrambling my thoughts. There’s no reason for me to care what he calls me. What matters is that he’s been spying on me in the most invasive way possible, and the fact that he’s been able to do it despite all of my family’s security precautions—and more importantly, that he cares enough to do it—is beyond chilling.
“Why?” is the actual question that emerges from my mouth as I stare up at him. My heart taps out a sickening beat in my chest as I further process the implications. I have an awful feeling I already know the answer, but I press ahead anyway. “Why would you do that?”
He cups my face, the rough edge of his thumb stroking over my cheek as his smile darkens further. “Why do you think, my beauty?”
Because he’s not against the betrothal. He wants me. As he told me at the prom, he already regards me as his. I’ve been trying to convince myself that his behavior that night was nothing more than some territorial instinct run amok, that his possessive declarations didn’t mean he actually wants me as his wife, but on some level, I’ve always known the truth.
“The betrothal…” I swallow as he lowers his hand to stroke my throat with his knuckles, his touch feather light yet devastating in its impact. “You want it.”
“Are you surprised? I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you.” He trails his hand farther down, brushing his knuckles over my collarbone, then over the tops of my breasts, pushed up as they are by the corset-style bodice of my gown. Again, his touch is a mere graze, yet it feels as if he’s painting trails of fire on my skin, reaching deep into my veins to ignite my blood. I swallow again as he adds dryly, “I know you’re not oblivious to your looks.”