Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
There’s nothing in the drawer, though. I mean, just junk. Random, lost-and-found looking items. Nothing of any importance.
I try the top drawer. It’s a little easier to jimmy the lock, but it also contains nothing of interest. Pens. Sticky notes. A few business cards.
The soft tread of a footfall is my only warning before I’m grabbed roughly from behind, one hand clapped over my mouth, an iron forearm at my windpipe. “What are you doing, little Valkyrie?”
I fight back, an elbow to the ribs, a kick to the nuts. I get free and grab the office chair, hefting it as I spin to smash it into Maykl’s solid form.
He deflects it with his arm, and it knocks me in the head before it clatters to the marble floors.
I kick him in the gut and run for the door.
I don’t even make it a step, though. He catches my wrist, wrenching it behind me until I fall to my knees with a cry.
“Surrender, Kira,” he growls. “Your game–whatever it is–is up.”
Maykl
Blyad.’ I knew this woman was trouble, and yet I let her in the building anyway. Talked myself into believing she was innocent. What kind of gatekeeper am I?
Shame and anger burn in my throat. Guilt vines around my chest. I’ve worked hard to make myself useful and trusted to Ravil, our bratva pakhan. Serving him is an honor. He's like no other leader in the bratva. He is dangerous, yes, but not evil. Not corrupt. He leads through trust, not fear.
Now I have to go to him and explain I let a woman into our domain despite my better instincts. That I let my dick do the thinking.
I force Kira to stand, pick up the phone she inexplicably brought down here, and frog march her to the elevator, grabbing my key card from her hand.
I took the stairs down when I realized she had left my apartment. I saw her on the video feed crouched behind my desk and didn't want the elevator to alert her to my approach.
“What were you looking for?” I growl after the elevator doors close.
She says nothing.
There's no more pretending we are friends. No more attempts at seduction.
“Who are you, really, Kira Koslova?”
Again, she gives me the silent treatment.
I don't trust her enough to release my hold on her arm even though I know it hurts her. She's been trained to fight. She's not some innocent girl who wandered in off the street. Not that I ever made the mistake of assuming she was. But whoever this woman is, she’s capable of holding her own, and I’d be an idiot to underestimate her again.
I turn her and press her against the wall with my fingers choking her breath. “Who sent you?” I demand.
She wheezes.
“Who?”
“Nobody,” she chokes out.
I don’t believe her, but I release my grip anyway. She was already turning red. My fingerprints stand out on her lovely swan neck.
I hate myself for it, even though it has to be done.
I gather her hands behind her and walk her to my apartment. Now what?
It’s the middle of the night. I’m not going to rouse Ravil with this situation. Especially not until I know more.
For some inexplicable reason, I’m reluctant to tell him at all. Not because I fear his anger–although I would hate to face his wrath or even disappoint him.
No, it’s more that I can’t stand turning her over to my cell.
She requires interrogation. Considering how experienced and unafraid she appears, I suspect she won’t spill her secrets easily. Which means torture.
The men of my cell are practiced at the art. Pavel, especially, although he’s in Los Angeles now. Adrian can be particularly cruel. They all are steeped in violence, even though you’d hardly guess from appearances now with how soft they seem with their women.
The thought of one drop of Kira’s blood spilling on their plastic tarp makes my fingers curl into fists. It brought me physical pain to see the metal leg of that office chair strike her temple. Thank fuck she didn’t seem too badly harmed.
I keep her wrists manacled in my hand as I open my desk drawer and pull out a roll of silver duct tape. I wind it liberally around her wrists, securing them behind her back. As I do, the hem of my T-shirt rides up in the back, revealing her bare ass.
My brain stutters. Stops.
Rewinds. She sneaks downstairs to search my desk naked? Or practically naked?
And also: I fucking love the sight of her swimming in my shirt.
Before I even think, I have her pinned over my desk, and I spank her ass fast and hard.
It’s infinitely satisfying to take out my residual aggression on her gorgeous ass. To deliver my irritation and annoyance at the stunt she pulled without actually harming her.
Because even though I haven’t admitted it to myself, I already know the truth: I’m incapable of spilling her blood. There will be no waterboarding. No fingers clipped off or fingernails removed.