Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I won’t think of that now.
I look away because I don't want him to somehow read my mind. I'm afraid that if he meets my eyes again, he'll see the replay of that night over and over and over again… just like I do when I close my eyes to sleep. When I run my hands over the scars on my belly.
I follow him as he points to the kitchen, the entryway that leads to the garage, a large sitting area, and a paved patio on the other side of glass doors, barely visible now that it’s dark out.
And as he gives me the tour, he looks over his shoulder at me from time to time.
It’s unsettling. No one’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m a challenge and a prize, an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. And I know then that if somehow I did manage to escape tomorrow, he would burn down the world to find me.
For better or for worse…
“Since you live here now—”
"I live here?" I interrupt. My voice is dry and mocking because if I don't make it a joke, the truth might slip out—and I can’t have that. "Bold of you to assume."
He doesn’t blink. "It’s a fact, and you know it, you little brat."
"You’re very bold, Mr. Cliché. She’s going to have my babies; she’s mine,” I mock. “Yeah, I got you ever since the time you wrote on my wall in that red." I tip my head to the side. "How did you get rid of it so fast anyway?"
He shrugs. “A magician never shows his hand."
I point my finger in the air with a dramatic flourish. "So you admit you did it.”
His eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. Any other motherfucker did that, I’d kill him."
I swallow. He’s telling the truth.
There’s no bravado, no need to raise his voice. His control is a blade pressed to my throat, and the worst part is… I crave pressing back. Feeling the metal scrape my skin.
I want to see if he’ll cut me. I want him to bleed for me too.
This is not how this is supposed to go.
"The tour," he rasps.
I nod, hyperaware of the fact that I’m naked under this ridiculous T-shirt and we’re somehow standing toe to toe. "The tour," I repeat.
I trail after him, cheeks flaming no matter how hard I try to control my reaction as he moves through the house, my bare feet silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. The house is exactly what I’d expect from him—dark wood, expensive, brutally elegant. Not a single soft edge anywhere. Maybe I’ll be the soft edge. Once I get my hands on one of his credit cards, I’m getting some fucking pink in here. Maybe even some witchy crystals—a little rose quartz to soften his edges and some obsidian to give me some goddamn protection.
He opens a door off the hall, revealing a laundry room—modern, spotless, efficient. Shelves are stacked with neatly folded clothes, softener and detergent lined up like soldiers. Even his damn laundry room looks like it’s ready for war.
“Housekeeper?"
I just want to fill the silence, but I also want to know who’s going to come in and see me half-naked because that’s definitely what’s going to happen. Some people drink to relieve stress. Others take drugs.
Maybe Matvei is a drug.
He shrugs. "Sometimes, yeah. Mostly, it’s just me. I’m not here a lot."
“Oh?”
“But that’s going to change."
That throws me. I look down at his massive hands, the same ones that pinned me down and held me, and imagine him carefully folding… towels. It’s disturbingly intimate. Domestic. Because now I can’t stop imagining those hands back on me, peeling my clothes off instead of washing them.
I swallow hard and wish I had a pile of dirty clothes to wash, suddenly eager for distance. I need a break from the intensity already. His gaze drops, dragging down the curve of my back, and I feel it—his desire, a little hum between us.
"I’m surprised you care as much as you do," he says suddenly, his voice low, cutting.
I straighten slowly and turn to face him. "About what?"
Don’t tell me he’s seen through my fake nonchalance already.
He takes a step toward me, closing the space until my back hits the dryer. "About how you look. About what my family thinks. About what I see when I look at you."
Fuck.
"Okay, get over yourself, Matvei,” I snap, but my voice betrays me. "I don’t really care about any of that."
He bares his teeth at me, and it would be a smile if it didn’t look so much like a threat. "Liar."
So what if I do care? So what if I like the disguises because they feel like armor? So what if I like the fact that I can move from place to place without ever putting down roots—because when I do, if I do, someone always comes along and rips them up again.