Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
His momentum builds with every hushed declaration, and I confirm that he’s right when pleasure rockets through my body. Spasms arc through me, forcing me to bow and contract around him. We are panting. High. Hungry for each other. And I can’t deny how much I like this. He’s inside me, and for now, he is mine too.
He stops and starts drunkenly, confusion marring his brows.
“Stop, stop,” he urges, but I’m not doing anything. I can’t do anything with the way he has me pinned. Still, his hips grind a to a halt, and his fingers kiss my face. “I’m going to blow if you keep doing that, zvezda.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I protest.
“You are,” he insists. “You are ruining me. What the fuck are you doing?”
Even in my doped-up state of mind, I’m cognizant enough to recognize it’s a rhetorical question. It’s a question I don’t have the answer for. So I stay quiet, watching him as he alternates between fucking me and cursing me out.
“Tell me that you belong to me,” he says.
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, exhausted.
“Tell me that you belong to me, and I will make you come every day.”
His lies pour salt into the bitter wound between us. He has no right to say such things.
“I won’t be your mistress,” I tell him. “I would rather die.”
Hard fingers squeeze my face. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes, and his are flame blue. He thrusts harder, faster, determined to prove he’s still in control when he comes inside me. And on his last sputtered breath, he confirms my deepest fear.
“You will be whatever I want you to be.”
“Kol’ka,” Viktor’s voice greets me from the other end of the line.
“How are you?” I ask.
It’s not unusual for him to call me, but I find myself dreading it more every day. The longer I lie to him, the closer I am to coming unraveled. He will start making demands soon. Demands I have no choice but to obey. This is the life I wanted—the one I was born into—yet it feels suffocating.
“I am well,” he answers. “But Ana has been asking after you. She is eager to see you at the Christmas party this evening.”
I close my eyes and lean back, grateful he is not here to witness the tension on my face. “I look forward to seeing her as well.”
The words feel like a betrayal to Nakya, and it’s unsettling, to say the least. I owe her nothing. My duty is what’s important.
“Ana requested that you wear a blue tie this evening,” Viktor says. “She will be in blue as well.”
“Then I will have Mischa pick one up.”
“I trust he will be bringing the girl along?”
His statement catches me off guard, and it seems Mischa forgot to mention that detail.
“He will,” I assure him. “We are traveling together.”
“Very good,” he says. “I know she is not Russian, but perhaps she will make a suitable companion for him in the interim. A nice plaything, anyway.”
My teeth come together so violently, the force reverberates through my jaw.
The line is silent, and I know it’s up to me to fill it. Courtesy dictates that I should ask pleasantries about his daughters and snuff out any suspicions he may have about Nakya. But I can’t force the words, try as I might.
Viktor takes it upon himself to fill the gap. “I suppose I should tell you that Manuel was not happy with the package delivered to his doorstep.”
“I don’t imagine he was.”
“If nothing else, it will motivate him to pay off his debt. Or perhaps I only imagine the best in him. I suppose it could also provoke him to write off his daughter altogether.”
“I don’t know what he will do,” I admit. But neither of those options are what’s best for Nakya.
“How are you coming along with your quest for answers?” Viktor inquires.
“I will have them soon,” I lie.
Another silence. He doesn’t believe me, and he shouldn’t. It’s not like me to be dishonest with him. It’s not like me to betray my brotherhood for my own selfish desires. But it’s the bed I have made for myself.
“I hope so, Kol’ka,” he says. “You are running out of time.”
“Did you pick up my tie?”
Mischa nods, tossing a shopping bag onto the bed. He’s wearing new trousers and a black dress shirt, and I haven’t failed to notice that his hair is freshly cut and groomed too. While it might be custom to wear our best for the annual Christmas party, it doesn’t suppress the urge to wallop him in the face.
I tear into the bag and retrieve my new tie.
“I told you to get blue, you doorak.”
“You specifically told me to get red,” he answers.
I utter a few more insults about his intelligence under my breath while I put it on. I did specifically tell him to get red, but I’ll never admit it.