Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Startled, I grip his shoulders as he carries me over to one of the tables, where he knocks one of the upturned chairs to the floor with his elbow and deftly flips it upright with his foot before depositing me onto it.
“Wait here, okay? I’ll be right back,” he says softly, squeezing my shoulder, and before I can reply, he strides out of the room.
Like an obedient dummy, I sit, too weak and shaky to move. A minute later, he reappears with several damp paper towels, a bottle of water, a travel-sized mouthwash, and an empty plastic cup—supplies that he no doubt pilfered from the nearby men’s room. Crouching in front of me, he gently pats my lips with the damp towels, his manner as impartial as that of a nurse, and then he directs me to gargle with the mouthwash and spit into the cup. By the time I’m done with that, he’s opened the water bottle and is holding it out to me. Gratefully, I chug it down, feeling more human with every swallow.
“Better?” he asks as I lower the empty bottle to my lap, and I nod, unable to meet his gaze.
He takes the bottle from me and sets it on the floor. “How is your headache?”
“Not so good,” I mutter, wishing I had the power to just disappear from here. Like in the Harry Potter movies—poof and gone.
He tilts my chin up with curved fingers, forcing me to look at him. His tone is gentle. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I blink, startled at the warm, almost sympathetic look in his dark eyes. “You mean…”
“We can go right now, get you into bed with an ice pack on your forehead. Then first thing tomorrow, I’ll get you in to see a top neurologist, have them run some tests.”
“Oh, no, thank you, I have an appointment with my parents’ doctor this coming week and—wait, no.” I press the heels of my palms to my throbbing temples. “I can’t just leave. It’s my party, and there are all these people—”
“So they’ll party on without you. Who gives a fuck?”
I stare at him, my heart pounding erratically as I drop my hands. “What about the announcement? I thought—”
“Six months.” His tone hardens, all traces of warmth fleeing his gaze as he rises to his feet. “I’ll give you six more months to get used to the idea of us. Go to Columbia, study what you wish, and when you come home for winter break, we’ll choose two dates—one for the announcement and one for the wedding itself.”
For a moment, I’m certain I’ve misheard him about the six months. Stunned, I’m about to ask him to repeat what he said, but he’s not done speaking yet.
“I’ll give this to you on two conditions,” he continues. “First, you will see a doctor for the headaches. Immediately. And second, no more pot or illegal drugs, prescription or otherwise.” He bends over me, gripping the arms of the chair as his eyes drill into me. “Can you promise me that?”
“Yes! Absolutely.” For six more months of freedom, I’d promise anything.
“Good. And there’s one more thing…” His eyes are like black diamonds as he brings his face closer, his voice dripping with menace as he says softly, “Have all the fun you want with your friends in the Big Apple, but know this: any man who tries to touch you will regret it for the rest of his very short, very painful life.”
Chapter 11
Present Day, Location Unknown
My cheeks burn as I stare into Alexei’s eyes, unable to pull my hands away from where his palms are pinning mine to the table, the bright sunshine making it impossible to hide from the truth of his words.
I did want him as a young teen, even if I didn’t understand it at the time. And by my eighteenth birthday, I was ripe for the taking. His taking. As much as I dreaded a forced marriage, I wouldn’t have been able to resist falling into his bed after the party if the pills hadn’t made me so sick.
Only I can’t admit that now. I can’t give him even more ammunition against me.
“I wasn’t myself that night,” I say unevenly. “I was high. You know that.”
His jaw tightens, and he releases my hands to lean back in his chair. “Yes, you were. High and sick with it. And like a fool, I took pity on you, giving you those extra six months.” His lips twist. “Little did I know what it would cost me.”
Pity. So that was his motivation. I’ve wondered about that for years. Even after my world shattered that winter, a part of me remained curious about his motives that night, whether he’d given me the reprieve out of some semblance of kindness or because he’d found me repellent.