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)
My breath hitches.
For the first time in years, I feel real fear.
Not even with Matvei did I feel like this.
My muscles tense.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I saw something that unnerved me, but I couldn’t tell you what."
His voice is low, unreadable. "Try."
His grip tightens just enough to ground me. Just enough to force me back to the present.
Swallowing hard, I glance back to where the figure had been. But there’s nothing.
Maybe it’s just paranoia catching up to me.
I shake my head. "I’m okay."
He doesn’t press, just nods. Then he takes my hand, leading me forward, on the outside of the road, as always. Close enough that our arms brush—a silent shield between me and the rest of the world.
And then, I continue to shop.
I love it. I come to life when I shop—the fabrics, the scents, the colors. Something new and shiny.
"Can I help you?" a woman asks, looking down her nose at me.
But before I can respond, Matvei’s voice cuts through.
"Scratch that."
I blink at him.
"We’re done here," he says. "Let’s go home."
And for the first time, I like hearing him say the word home.
It’s not home.
But why does it feel that way?
Why do I like the way his fingers tighten around mine?
Why does it send a thrill through me when he leans in and smells me?
Why do I love the way he opens the door for me and gestures for me to go in first?
I love all of it.
But my mind is back on my past, the rejection from the Irish, the pain that took away my choices.
I stare out the window, fingering the edge of the bag in my lap.
"You spoiled me today," I say.
"If buying you what you need is spoiling, then you and I have different definitions of the word."
"Really? What does it mean to you?"
"Letting you get away with everything."
I smirk. "Then I’m definitely not spoiled."
Matvei doesn’t let me get away with anything. Not even the things I should.
By the time we reach his house, the unease I felt in the square hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s worse.
I’m breathing hard when we make it to the front door.
He stands behind me, watching. "You’re shaking." His voice is steady. Controlled. "Why are you shaking?"
"I told you—"
"I don’t care what you told me."
That’s the worst part. He doesn’t lose control, and somehow, that makes him terrifying.
He leans in. "What did you see back there?"
"Nothing."
I snap away from him, wrapping my arms around myself, shielding. Grounding. "Just let me go in. I want space."
Silence.
I don’t expect him to listen.
But then, the door opens, and I step inside when he gestures for me to go first.
It’s warm in here. Bright. Clean. And I immediately feel my pulse begin to slow.
I wasn’t prepared for the way the word home would hit me.
But I’ve been living a nomadic existence for so fucking long.
And I’m angry with myself for even wanting this.
What I love about being able to change my appearance and slip from place to place is that I don’t have to put down roots.
I’ve spent my life running—from control, from the identity forced upon me by my father before he died.
It’s made me put my guard up. Made me use my skills in deception and forgery to craft my ultimate escape plans.
It’s forced me to trust no one.
Maybe… maybe I’m tired of running.
Maybe I don’t want to anymore.
Does that mean I’m giving up?
I won’t give up. I can’t.
I need to stay until an opportunity comes. Until I can run again.
Matvei doesn’t love me.
I’m only a tool to him.
A prize.
I need to remember that.
Then why do I watch him when I think he isn’t looking?
Why can’t I help but notice the nervous energy he hides by tapping his foot or checking his phone?
Why does it feel so dark and absolutely thrilling… when he calls me his?
Chapter 14
MATVEI
She knows what she's doing.
For days, I’ve kept us secluded at my house, and she doesn’t seem to mind it. I don’t know why. Maybe she has a mild case of agoraphobia—she was fun at first when I took her shopping, but something changed. She got uneasy. Unsettled. And she wouldn’t tell me why.
She’s made no mention of wanting to leave, and instead, she’s making herself at home. She knows she can escape. But she doesn’t. Not that I’m complaining.
She’s beautiful. So fucking beautiful, my girl. And she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I made love to her the night after we went shopping. That was several days ago. Since then, I’ve been busy and let her roam through my house, adding her signature touch. At first, I didn’t understand what she was doing. It wasn’t like she changed anything major, but I started noticing—the throw blanket over the couch, the diffuser filling the air with something calming, the stack of kitchen towels where I used to only use paper.