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)
But I wasn’t about to let him use that against me.
I wasn’t about to let him distract me with softness while he stole my freedom.
“Kostya,” I snapped, stomping my foot against the freezing tile floor. The sharp contrast between the warmth of the bath and the cold seeping into my skin had me shivering. “You may have taken most of my choices away, but this is one decision you will not make for me. I will not marry you.”
He turned off the tap, unhurried, unbothered. “It’s not up for discussion, babygirl.”
His voice was smooth, utterly calm, but there was something final in it, something that made my stomach drop. “The arrangements are already being made. We will get married tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
I swayed as my vision blurred. The air felt too thick, the steam suffocating instead of comforting. My chest tightened, my heart pounded against my ribs in a wild, panicked rhythm.
He hadn’t even looked at me.
Hadn’t given me the dignity of facing me while he stripped away my choices.
“Over my dead body,” I snarled, my teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached.
That finally got his attention.
Kostya stood in one smooth motion, reaching down to turn off the water.
The sudden silence rang in my ears.
His movements were measured, controlled, but the way his jaw flexed, a sharp tick of muscle beneath his skin, told me what his calm exterior didn’t.
He was pissed.
None of the Ivanov men were used to hearing the word no.
I took a step back, my bare feet slipping slightly on the slick tile, but he followed. Heat radiated from his body, hotter than the steam, hotter than the bath, chasing me back, forcing me to retreat until I hit the wall.
The cool marble bit into my skin, sending a shock through my body and before I could move, before I could slip away, Kostya was there.
His hands pressed against the wall beside my head, caging me in. His body loomed over mine, all tattooed muscle and dominance, his bare chest damp from the mist curling in the air, his pupils blown wide.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
The sharp scent of vanilla and jasmine filled my nose, cloying now, overpowering. The steam clung to my skin, and I was too warm, too aware of the heat pulsing between us. My pulse roared in my ears, every survival instinct screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something.
But I was trapped.
And the worst part?
Beneath the panic, beneath the sharp, animal terror flooding my veins.
There was something else.
Something that had my stomach twisting, my breath coming faster, my thighs pressing together involuntarily.
I was afraid of him.
But I was afraid of myself more.
“That is precisely what I am trying to avoid,” Kostya growled as he ripped the sheet from my body, his strength effortless, his movements merciless.
I barely had time to gasp before he lifted me into his arms as if I weighed nothing.
Rage burned through me, white-hot and all-consuming. I fought him with everything I had.
My fists pounded against his shoulders. My legs kicked out, desperate to break free. I twisted, thrashed, anything to loosen his grip, but his arms were steel vices around my thighs and ribs.
I couldn’t move.
He didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t grunt. Didn’t acknowledge my fight.
He simply walked into the steaming bath and sank us both into the water, dragging me down with him. The heat licked at my skin, not quite scalding. I latched onto the sides of the tub, my fingers clawing against the wet porcelain as I tried to pull myself free.
His hand shot out, tangling in my hair, yanking me back down.
A strangled gasp escaped me as he wrenched my body against his, my back flush to his broad, unyielding chest.
His other hand gripped my hip, keeping me pinned between his legs, his skin burning against mine, his strength inescapable.
I sucked in a breath, about to scream, but he jerked my head back and crushed his lips to mine.
A punishment. A claiming. A warning.
I tried to turn away, but his grip only tightened.
The more I fought, the more water sloshed over the edge, spilling onto the floor in waves, a physical echo of my panic.
His fingers fisted my hair, pulling tight enough to make me whimper.
He took advantage of the sound, his tongue slipping past my lips, invading, dominating, owning, until my struggles weakened.
I hated my body for responding.
Hated the way my pulse thundered, not just in fear, but from something darker.
Finally, he pulled back, his breath hot against my swollen lips.
“If you don’t stop arguing with me, I’ll be forced to punish you,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
My stomach dropped.
My eyes widened, shock slamming into me with an almost physical force.
How could he not see that I would not marry him?
That this was wrong?
It didn’t matter how much my body craved him, how much I enjoyed our time together when he wasn’t being a brute.