Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
My teeth are starting to hurt from gritting them so much. Does she know I’m having steamy, inappropriate thoughts about her? Is that why she’s digging at me with that?
“Then let’s just not talk,” I grunt as I fly.
A wild fantasy grips me as she turns silent again. What if I didn’t bother heading to the plane waiting for us back to the East Coast, Molly, Dad, and baby Henry? What if I decided to fly somewhere else, disappear with Ania, and make this petite bombshell with dark, captivating eyes want and need me as much as I’m beginning to want and need her? What if …
However, I don’t live based on what-ifs. I never have, and I can’t let myself start now. I’ll have to use some old-fashioned discipline to stop my thoughts from straying there, if that’s even possible.
CHAPTER 4
ANIA
I’m sitting on several blankets, still wearing Aiden’s hoodie, behind two huge boxes covered with military jargon. I keep expecting to wake up in my dance studio with no writing on the mirror, no Aiden, and no madness. Reaching over to the box, I touch the cool metal to confirm that it’s real and that this is actually happening.
Aiden sits opposite me on a seat that folds out from the wall. A few men talk quietly on the other side of the huge storage area. Nobody pays us any attention. On the way into the hangar, Aiden had to put a black bag over my head. That was when the nerves got so bad I couldn’t hold back the tears.
Don’t let them hear you cry, I told myself over and over, struggling to make my sobs as silent as possible.
Aiden looks so big in the foldout chair. He leans over a small piece of wood, casually picking at it with a small knife. He handles the blade with surprising precision for a man of his size. I want to ask him what he’s going to turn the piece of wood into—he seems to have a purpose—but that would go against the whole hating-him thing.
“Still think I should fear your brothers?” he says after a few minutes, the plane rumbling beneath me as it takes us who-knows-where.
I aim a cocky grin at him or try to, anyway. Everything feels so surreal, but I’m determined not to let him see how terrified I am. “That hurt your ego, didn’t it?”
He tightens his grip on the knife, turning away, maybe thinking he’s hiding the fact that I’m right. His ego does seem hurt. “In my line of work, having an ego is a bad idea.”
“Then maybe you should quit.”
His lips twitch, and he quickly kills what I know would’ve been a laugh. He’s done that a few times, clearly about to laugh and then quickly stopping himself as though he feels guilty about it. Or maybe he’s worried about laughing because he doesn’t want to develop any rapport with me. Perhaps he knows he’ll have to do something bad, and he’s getting himself ready.
“It doesn’t matter where you take me,” I go on. “It doesn’t matter why you’re doing this. They’ll never stop.”
It’s true, I now know. Mikhail and I got off to a rocky start, but ever since finding his Mila, he’s become the best big brother a girl could wish for. And Dimitri has always been protective.
“Criminals always find it difficult to accept when they’ve been beaten,” Aiden says, shrugging.
“Stop calling them criminals,” I snap.
“Hmm.”
I almost throw something at him, but there’s nothing on hand. Folding my arms, I lean against the blankets, desperately wanting to lie down and sleep. I shouldn’t feel comfortable enough around this stranger to even think about sleeping.
“How long is this flight?”
“Several hours,” he replies. “Rest if you want.”
It’s like he can read my mind, but then I shake my head. “So you can … take advantage?”
He shakes his head in disgust. “I’m not some Bratva trafficking pimp, Ania. I’m not like them.”
“My brothers aren’t pimps.” When he just shrugs, I add, “Stepbro.”
For some reason, this seems to bother him. Maybe it’s because he’s spun a ridiculous tale for me about my mom, and every time I say stepbro, it reminds him of the lie. That would mean there’s some humanity in him, and I can’t afford to assume that.
I need to get ready to fight, but just thinking that seems ridiculous. He’s so much bigger than me and calmer. He looks constantly on the edge, getting ready for something.
Even with that knowledge, sleep still tugs at me. He goes back to whittling, blowing on the emerging shape so that little pieces of wood dance and flake in the air. We’re quiet for some time, but then we hit some turbulence again, and I can’t help it. Usually, I’m a chatterbox when I’m nervous, but I’m trying to contain some of it.