Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
"So this is my new prison," I say dryly. Silk sheets as soft as a lover’s touch brush my skin, and yet I feel caged. Gilded chains in the form of rare paintings line the walls, and fresh-cut roses—too perfect, staged—sit on every surface. It’s beautiful but as suffocating as iron bars.
He looks at me sharply and doesn't reply.
When his phone vibrates, he answers it and turns away from me, speaking in Russian. I realize it's easier for me to understand Russian than English. Russian must be my first language, then. How strange to need to remember that.
He told me to rest. He told me that if I push it, I will impede my recovery. Rest it is, then, but it's a lot easier said than done with my brain.
It's human nature to want to sift truth from lies, but how does one do so without a foundation of memory? I try to piece together what he’s said without taxing my brain. He says he's my husband and that we didn’t like each other. That I was hit by a car after running away from him and lost my memory.
I have two choices then: believe what he tells me or don’t and seek the truth.
Overcome with exhaustion, the pain becomes too much. I close my eyes, thankful for the clean sheet beneath my chin and the soft mattress. I like the sound of his voice, I think, as I start to drift off to sleep. He's confident. Commanding. And somehow, that brings me no small measure of solace.
As I drift into darkness, faint images glimmer at the recesses of my mind. Laughter. A shadowy figure. A whisper in Russian.
Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember who I am. Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember everything. Maybe when I wake up, I'll be able to distinguish truth from lies.
Or will I?
Chapter 8
RAFAIL
While she sleeps, I make a few phone calls. My mind races. She’s curious and bright, and even though, so far, her memory is spotty, there’s no question with a mind as sharp as hers that it will come back.
And fuck me, she’s gorgeous. I wasn’t prepared for this. For her. Every inch of her challenges my self-control. Those wide, almost innocent eyes that glint with defiance, the gentle part of her full lips when she’s surprised, almost like she’s tempting without even trying. Her skin is pale and flawless, and when she shifts, the curve of her neck beckons to me. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, as brilliant as a Snow Queen’s.
I clench my fists, willing myself to focus, to remember that she’s here because she ran from me, but every inch of her soft skin, every delectable curve, only makes it harder to concentrate. The sooner I truly claim her, the sooner I truly make her mine…
When I held her, the scent of her skin, soft and slightly sweet, hit me like a drug, raw and intoxicating, making my pulse race. When she looked up at me with wide eyes, her pretty lips just inches from my own, I could hardly keep myself from tracing the line of her jaw, from pressing my lips to the place where her pulse beats just beneath her delicate skin.
I want to bury my hands in her hair and my cock in her tight, hot pussy until she arches beneath me, helpless and mine. I’ve fought, controlled, dominated, and conquered so many before her, yet nothing prepared me for this. For her.
The woman who brought near devastation to everything I’ve ever built, who put my entire family at risk.
I’ll claim that sweet, hot cunt of hers until the memory of my touch is seared into her.
I look out the window at our estate. I poured blood, sweat, and tears into keeping this house in my family’s name. In my name. When I was still barely over the threshold of adulthood, it was a much harder task than I’d anticipated.
People have always called it “The Cottage,” but it’s anything but small and simple—more like a fortress. Our large, sprawling home just outside of Moscow blends with the old-fashioned style of old Russia with modern touches—tall stone walls, large windows, and intricate iron gates that almost make it feel like a citadel. Inside, I’ve kept it simple and functional—my office and command center on the first floor are the only places I’ve focused any of my attention. My sisters, however, have brought warmth and comfort.
Yana begged me to let her decorate, insisting that every room needed a touch of “her unique charm,” as she put it, her playful grin challenging anyone. I gave my sister what she wanted. I had to. It gave me no small pleasure to know my father would turn over in his grave in disapproval.
I look toward my bedroom.