Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
No wonder Alexei had acted as if he had a claim on her. By that barbaric—and undoubtedly illegal—contract, he does. I can only hope his feelings for her extend beyond the dark lust I saw on his face that night, and that he isn’t as terrible of a man as his reputation suggests.
Nikolai’s lips curve in an answering smile as he moves to shift me off his lap, but I wrap my arms around his neck, refusing to let him go. “Lie down with me, please,” I murmur into his ear. “I’m not ready to get up yet.”
As concerned as I am about Alina, I’m almost as worried about how hard Nikolai is taking what happened. He hasn’t had a single decent night of sleep over the past week, and it shows in the darker hollows around his striking eyes, the deeper grooves bracketing his sensuous mouth… his unrelenting obsession with Slava’s and my safety.
Not only did Nikolai refuse to remove the cameras from inside the house when I asked, but he’s having me and Slava wear tracker bracelets that tell him our exact location and measure our vital signs at all times.
I’ve opted not to fight him on this for now, as we’ve had much bigger issues to focus on, including the funerals for the fallen guards—yet another reason for Nikolai’s grim mood. More than a dozen of our men were killed in the attack, and several others were severely injured—though, luckily, most of Nikolai’s army friends weren’t among the former.
Alexei’s men pinned them down in a ravine, preventing them from coming to our aid or radioing for help, but everybody except Ivanko survived. Even Arkash, who caught a bullet perilously close to his spine, is expected to make a full recovery.
The other bright spot in all of this is Slava. Once we explained that what he saw was a part of the security drill, and that Alina went on vacation with “Uncle Lyosha,” the boy has gone right back to his cheerful self, pestering me, Pavel, and Lyudmila with a million questions about the new guards and the construction going on at the compound.
“Zaychik…” Nikolai’s voice takes on a hoarser note as I oh-so-innocently let my lips graze his earlobe. “I wish I could join you, but I have a lot of work this morning.”
Of course he does, but it can wait until he gets some sleep. Dropping all pretense of innocence, I wriggle my butt against the growing bulge in his pants and kiss the hard underside of his jaw. “Please… pretty please.”
If there’s one thing the events of last week haven’t affected, it’s Nikolai’s sex drive—and sure enough, that kiss is all it takes for him to flip me onto my back and fuck me until we’re both sweaty, sore, and beyond satisfied. And, as I hoped, exhausted enough to sleep… at least those of us who haven’t gotten any shuteye.
I wait until I’m sure Nikolai is deep in the embrace of slumber before I carefully wriggle out from underneath his arm and pad over to the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day.
When I come out, he’s still asleep, the stamp of exhaustion heavy upon his beautiful features. Smiling tenderly, I watch him for a while. Then I plop into a lounge chair by the window and open my laptop to check the news, as has been my custom every morning for the past few days.
As we hoped, more of Bransford’s victims have come forward since the story about his assault on Masha broke—and not just the two women Nikolai found. Every day has brought fresh, ever-more-horrifying revelations… which is why I’ve been so addicted to the news.
Every damning headline avenges my mom further.
Opening a browser, I navigate to my favorite news site—only to freeze at the words splashed boldly across the screen:
BRANSFORD COMMITS SUICIDE IN HOTEL ROOM
Stomach churning, I click on the article.
Apparently, some thirty-nine minutes ago, Tom Bransford was found in a Four Seasons penthouse with his wrists slit, the suicide note by his bed leaving little doubt as to what happened.
That is, little doubt for anyone who doesn’t know my husband and what he’s capable of.
Setting the laptop aside, I get up and walk over to the bed, my heart beating unevenly as I stare at the man sleeping there—the husband I’ve grown to love more than life itself.
Did he do this?
Did he decide that, even stripped of his political pull and on the verge of being criminally prosecuted, Bransford poses too great of a threat to me?
Did Masha or someone like her slip into that Four Seasons penthouse and set everything up to make it look like Bransford killed himself—same as his assassins had done to my mom?
I should wake up Nikolai and demand the answer to these questions, get him to admit the truth—but I know I won’t. Not because I’m still afraid to face the darkness within him, but because I’m realizing that this particular truth doesn’t matter to me.