Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Men who kill for money wouldn’t hesitate to avenge their boss in the most brutal ways.
“You have five seconds to open this door.”
Fighting a sense of déjà vu, I sink my teeth into my lower lip but keep still, even as my heart thuds sickly and cold sweat pours down my spine. As much as I don’t want him to hurt me, I don’t want to live like this either, too afraid to stand up for myself, meekly going along with a madman’s demands. The last time I locked a door on him, I was in shock, so overwhelmed and terrified from seeing him kill those two men that I acted on autopilot. Now, however, my action is deliberate.
I need to know how far he’ll go, what he’s willing to do to get his way.
He doesn’t count out loud this time, so I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five… I wait for his kick to rattle the door, but instead, I hear footsteps heading down the hall.
The breath I’m holding escapes in a relieved whoosh. Is it possible? Could he have given up and decided to leave me alone tonight? I wouldn’t have expected that, but he’s surprised me before. Maybe his reluctance to force me still holds; maybe he’s drawing a line at breaking down the bedroom door and—
The footsteps return, and the door handle rattles again before something metallic scratches against it. My heart skips a beat, then resumes its furious thudding.
He’s picking the lock on the door.
The cool deliberateness of that action is somehow scarier than if he’d simply kicked down the door. My tormentor is not acting out of anger; he’s fully in control and knows exactly what he’s doing.
The metallic scratching lasts for less than a minute. I know because I watch the blinking numbers on the alarm clock on my nightstand. Then the door swings open, and Peter steps in, his gait radiating restrained rage and his face set in cold, hard lines.
Fighting the urge to run, I raise my chin and stare up at him as he stops in front of me, his big body towering over my much shorter frame.
“Come to dinner.” His voice is quiet, soft even, but I hear the pulsing darkness underneath. He’s hanging on to his control by a thread, and if I had any hope left, I’d back down out of self-preservation. But I’m all out of strategies, and at some point, self-preservation has to take a back seat to self-respect.
Recklessly, I shake my head. “I’m not doing this.”
His nostrils flare. “Doing what? Eating?”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl again, and I flush at the unfortunate timing. “I’m not eating with you,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Nor am I sleeping with you—or doing anything else for that matter.”
“No?” Dark amusement creeps into the gray iciness of his gaze. “Are you sure about that, ptichka?”
My hands ball at my sides. “I want you out of my house. Now.”
“Or what?” He steps closer, crowding me with his large body until I have no choice but to back up in the direction of the bed. “Or what, Sara?”
I want to threaten him with the police or FBI, but we both know that if I could’ve gone to them, I would’ve already done so. There’s nothing I can do to force him out of my life, and that’s the crux of the matter.
Ignoring the icy sweat trickling down my back, I lift my chin higher. “I’m done with this, Peter.”
“This?” He steps closer, cocking his head to the side.
“This sick relationship fantasy you’ve cooked up,” I clarify. He’s too close for comfort, invading my personal space like he belongs there. His masculine scent surrounds me, the heat coming off his big body warming my insides, and I step back again, trying to ignore the melting sensation between my thighs and the aching tautness of my nipples.
I can’t be this close to him without remembering how it feels to be even closer, to be joined with him in the most intimate of ways.
“A sick relationship fantasy?” His eyebrows arch mockingly. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“I. Am. Done,” I repeat, enunciating each word. My heart slams anxiously against my ribcage, but I’m determined not to back down or let him distract me with a discussion of our messed-up relationship. “If you want to cook in my kitchen, go ahead, but short of force-feeding me, you can’t make me eat with you—or do anything else with you of my own accord.”
“Oh, ptichka.” Peter’s voice is soft, his gaze almost sympathetic. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”
His lips curve in that imperfect, magnetic smile, and my stomach flips as he comes even closer. Desperate for some distance, I take another step back, only to feel the back of my knees press against the bed.