Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 19
MARINA
He dragged me from the elevator the second the doors slid open, his grip unrelenting.
My wrist throbbed from how tightly he held it, but I didn’t fight.
Not with the way his entire body vibrated with barely leashed rage.
He shoved the suite door open, pushed me inside, and slammed it behind him.
Click.
The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place might as well have been an iron bar slamming across a dungeon entrance.
I turned just in time to see him press his hands flat against the door, shoulders heaving with every breath. His head dropped forward for half a second, as if gathering himself. Then he turned, eyes dark and wild, a predator pacing the bars of its cage.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
I blinked. “What?” I paused then dropped the jacket and shawl I’d just shrugged out of onto the tiled entrance so I didn’t ruin the furniture or carpet with mud. Of all the things I expected—yelling, threats, maybe even another punishment—this wasn’t one of them.
He didn’t hesitate. “I said, take off your clothes.”
The very first thing I had wanted to do was get out of these mud-caked clothes. The long drive in the heated car had turned the mud dry and crumbly, flaking off in dark chunks that scattered across the vinyl seats every time I shifted my weight. Each movement caused the stiff fabric to scratch against my skin, a constant reminder of my failed escape attempt.
But I refused to give Kostya the satisfaction.
“Absolutely not.” My arms crossed over my chest on instinct. “What is wrong with you?”
His head snapped toward me. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the dried mud that still streaked his face. Even covered in dirt, he looked dangerously handsome—and I hated myself for noticing.
“What’s wrong with me?”
The words cut, low and incredulous. He took a step forward, his chest rising and falling as if he could barely breathe through his anger.
“Are you serious right now? You want to know what’s wrong with me?”
Another step.
The backs of my thighs hit the edge of the couch.
“What’s wrong with me is that I came here to save you from being murdered by a fucking sociopath.”
His voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings, swallowing up the room’s quiet, refined luxury. His hands raked through his muddy hair, then dropped to his sides as he stared at the dirt in disgust. “And every goddamn turn I take, you’re right there, making my life harder.”
He paced, his movements sharp, restless, a tiger in a too-small cage. “I had to chase you through downtown Chicago. Do you know what that got me?” His arms flew out, his laugh bitter. “Arrested.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a glare sharp enough to slice bone. “When I finally caught up to you again, what did you do?”
He turned on me so fast I flinched. “You knocked me unconscious.” A step closer. “And hog-tied me like a fucking asshole.”
I swallowed hard, pulse hammering.
His breath came out in harsh bursts, his nostrils flaring. “And I justified it. I thought, it’s fine. She’s scared. I understand that. So I gave you grace. I tracked you down onto that train, paid for a perfectly good first-class room—one with a bed, with food, so we could actually rest—and what did you do?”
He cut himself off, chest heaving. “You jumped off the goddamn train.”
I opened my mouth again, but his voice cracked over mine.
“Who the fuck jumps off a goddamn train?” His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind.
“I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m soaked through with mud and dirt and God only knows what else. And you“—he jabbed a finger toward me—"are going to take off your goddamn clothes and get in that fucking shower.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Because I want to get clean. And warm. And there is not a single chance in hell that I am leaving you alone.” His voice dipped lower, quieter, but no less dangerous. “So you can escape again.”
His face was dark red, veins bulging in his neck. His fingers flexed, clenched, then flexed again, like he wanted to grab something—me—but didn’t trust himself to touch me.
The suite was too quiet in the wake of his fury.
The only sound was our breathing. His, heavy and ragged. Mine, shallow and uneven.
He wasn’t just angry.
He was feral.
And I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
His whole body was wound tight, every muscle coiled as if he were barely holding himself together.
I had never seen someone so livid.
I should’ve been afraid. I should have been backing away, trying to put as much space between us as possible.
Instead, an entirely different instinct took hold, one I hated.
I wanted to soothe him. To drag my fingers through his hair, press my lips to the angry line of his jaw, smooth away the tension in his shoulders. To fix it.