Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Grab something,” he orders.
I purposely drop my towel, holding his gaze for a moment before I slowly squat. The need to prove last night was more than convenience is strong.
Adrian’s nostrils flare, and the muscles around his jaw tighten.
Good.
I hope he suffers. I hope his balls turn blue while he watches me.
I rummage through the suitcase, looking for something hard I can hit him over the head with.
He’s onto me, though. “Take the one on the top,” he barks. “Stop fucking around.”
“This one?” I ask with mock innocence. I hook a finger in the neck of a soft, hunter green Henley and pick it up away from my body, so it hides nothing. “Do you have any panties for me?”
“Don’t play seductress,” Adrian says.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You must want punishment.” Adrian’s voice is silky and deep.
I smile because he’s playing along. Either he’s playing, or he’s for real. I don’t care which it is–I love this game. My nipples harden into tight beads.
Adrian’s gaze dips to them, then he snatches his shirt from my hands and pulls it over my head like I’m a doll-baby he has to dress. He shakes his head like he’s disgusted by me, but I know he’s full of shit.
“No panties for you.” He gives my ass a slap and captures both my wrists behind my back. My heart trips with excitement.
“Ooh, Spank me, Daddy.”
“No. Nyet.” He propels me forward, back to the bed. There’s genuine irritation in his voice now. I sort of love it. “I told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry, Master,” I say in a fake submissive voice.
He brings me to the side of the bed and pulls a fresh zip tie out of his pocket.
I fight him. “No more zip ties. Have you seen my wrists?” I demand.
He twists my wrists back in front of me and examines them. They are chafed and raw and even though his face doesn’t change, I somehow am sure he feels bad about it.
He pins my wrists with one hand and uses the other to retrieve the gag he had around my head this morning. He twists this around my wrists twice, then wraps the zip tie on top.
“Not so tight!” I interject as he starts to tighten it.
He pauses, slows down. Measures carefully then lets it out a touch.
I make a show out of wincing and sucking in my breath like it really hurts. I mean, it does hurt–it’s tender–but I’m definitely working it.
He backs it off another smidge. I keep an outward pressure on my wrists to hold them apart as he constrains them, and I don’t twist or turn to show I still have a little room. When he finishes, he pushes me backward to sit on the bed. “Hands above you, dietka.”
“No,” I say stubbornly.
When he raises his brows with warning, I act petulant. “Why do they have to be over my head? It makes all the blood drain out of my hands. My shoulders and neck still ache.” I roll onto my side in a fetal position, holding my wrists in front of me. “Here,” I offer. “Find another place to attach me, so I can at least lie on my side.”
Adrian drags in a measured breath like he’s working to keep his patience, but as I suspected, the guy is a cinnamon roll under the tough guy act. He makes a daisy chain out of several zip ties and attaches one to the bed frame and one to my wrists.
When he stands, he peels off his wet shirt. The guy is gorgeous. On the wiry side and pale-skinned but built of solid muscle. When he turns away, I see he has a large, beautiful flame tattoo on his right shoulder blade with the Cyrillic letters that spell mest’ beneath it.
“What does mest’ mean?”
“Vengeance.” He turns and pins me with a brutal look, and my stomach flips.
“You burned someone in vengeance?”
He shakes his head, his lips turning down with bitterness. “Not yet.”
A shudder of recognition runs through me. This is about my father, I’m sure of it.
“You’re going to burn him?” I ask.
“Bratva tattoos are for crimes already complete,” he says, shucking his wet jeans.
I wet my lips with my tongue, unable to resist asking, yet not sure I want to hear the answer. “What did you burn?”
This time when he meets my gaze, there’s triumph flaming behind the dark promise of retribution. “I burned his factory down.” He walks toward the bathroom in his boxer briefs but stops and turns when he gets to the doorway. “Don’t make any sound,” he says. There’s a threat in his gaze.
“It’s not like anyone could hear me anyway,” I say, which is true because he still has the television turned up loud.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start.