Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I hissed when the warm water hit my chilled skin, the initial shock giving way to blessed relief. I cranked the heat higher, letting the scalding water turn my skin pink. One perk of showering before any of my classmates woke up—all the hot water was mine.
The warmth seeped into my muscles, temporarily dulling the worst of the pain in my shoulder. I tested it gingerly, rotating it slightly. Not as agonizing as before, but a deep, throbbing ache had settled in. I wondered vaguely if it had been properly set back in place or if I'd need surgery. Another thing to worry about later.
Right now, all I wanted was to wash away the last few hours. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, trying to remove any trace of my father's touch, of the ropes that had bound me, of the trunk’s grime and the motor oil stench that had sunk into my pores, of the cabin's musty smell that clung to my hair.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash away the memory of Artem's eyes. The way they'd pierced through me, seeing everything I tried to hide.
Tell me what you want, princess.
No one had ever asked me that before. No one had ever cared.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary, banishing the thought. Whatever game Artem Ivanov was playing, I couldn't afford to be a pawn in it. I'd survived this long by keeping my head down and my emotions locked away. I wasn't about to change that now.
I slipped on my leggings and then carefully eased my oversized sweater over my head and my arms down the sleeves, the soft fabric a small comfort against my sensitized skin. My wet hair dripped down my back, sending a chill through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.
By the time I returned to my dorm room, the door had been fixed, and a new man had arrived. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that stuck up in all directions and wire-rimmed glasses that sat crooked on his nose. He had the disheveled air of someone who had been dragged out of bed—which, given the early hour, he probably had been.
"Miss Zaitseva," he said in a thick Russian accent, "I am Dr. Petrov. I need to examine your shoulder."
I recognized the type immediately. A "concierge" doctor who existed in that gray area of probably having gone to medical school but whose license was revoked for one reason or another, now servicing the mafia for cash. My father had employed a similar doctor.
"It's fine," I said automatically, backing toward my bed. "It's just a little sore."
His eyebrows shot up. "A dislocated shoulder is not 'fine.' It needs proper examination and treatment."
He approached with his medical bag, and I reluctantly sat on the edge of my bed. His hands were gentle as he probed my shoulder, but even the lightest touch sent white-hot pain shooting down my arm.
"The joint has been expertly reset, but there is still significant swelling and possible soft tissue damage," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I will give you something for pain and inflammation."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe. My heart rate doubled instantly.
"No," I said, scrambling backward on the bed. "No shots."
Dr. Petrov frowned. "This will help you sleep and manage the pain."
"I said no." Panic clawed at my chest. "I don't want to be drugged."
The doctor's frown deepened. "It is not 'drugging' you. It is medical treatment."
"I don't care what you call it," I snapped, reckless from the pain and exhaustion. "I'm not letting you inject me with something when I don't even know what it is!"
"Miss Zaitseva, please be reasonable—"
"No!" My shout echoed off the cinder-block walls.
And then, like a nightmare materializing out of my darkest thoughts, a tall figure appeared in the doorway. Broad shoulders. Immaculate suit. Cold, steel-gray eyes.
Artem.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, deceptively soft.
My heart stuttered in my chest. I could see the stains on his crisp white shirt. Dark stains. Blood.
My father's blood.
He stepped into the room, and it instantly felt smaller, as if the walls were closing in. The air thickened with his presence, making it hard to breathe.
"No problem," Dr. Petrov said quickly. "Miss Zaitseva is reluctant to accept pain medication."
Artem's gaze shifted to me, his expression unreadable. "And why is that, princess?"
The endearment wasn't affectionate—not coming from him.
It was a claim.
A reminder that I was at his mercy now.
"I don't like needles," I lied, wrapping my good arm protectively around myself.
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes taking in my wet hair, my pale face, the way I tried to make myself small on the bed. Whatever he saw there shifted something in his expression. Not a softening, exactly, but a slight easing of the predatory intensity.