Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Try to stop me,” I grumble at him, marching past and into the hall. I get ten steps before I realize I have no clue where I’m going. “Er, uh, where does the mail…?”
He beams and gestures for me to follow. “Right this way.”
“It’s a big house,” I mumble at him as we head down the back steps together.
I brush my hands on my pants and admire my work.
New paintings on the wall. Little trinkets on the shelves. Books lined up, some with sprayed edges, others with pretty covers, ordered by color. A little splash of rainbow in an otherwise gray-and-gold scheme.
It’s nowhere near finished, but it’s finally beginning to feel like my own.
Like it’s my actual home.
Not identical to the way it was back in my father’s house, but still, all mine.
Pride fills me for a moment. Today was a good day. I did hide from strangers earlier, but I worked up the courage to help Vito carry my packages upstairs, and I even said hello to the guards when we walked past them.
It only made me want to scream and hide a little bit. Great progress!
As I start thinking about what I’m going to do for the rest of the night—mind-rotting amounts of Instagram scrolling seem most likely—there’s another knock. I figure it’s Vito with a package we missed, but when I check, there’s nobody in the hall.
And when there’s another insistent knock, I realize I’m at the wrong door.
Cold fear fills my stomach as I drift into the hall. It stares at me, the portal into his room, with all that baggage.
Is he really here for more already?
My heart starts beating quickly. Am I allowed to turn him down? What happens if I try and he doesn’t like that? I’m still sore from last night, and while I like that he’s already thinking about me again, I’m not sure I can handle him splitting me in half so soon.
I need a little recovery time.
My hands tremble slightly as I grab the knob. Do I let him down lightly? Should I just tell him off?
I keep my chin high and my back straight, hoping my prim armor will let him know that tonight is not the night.
Except when I see him leaning casually against the wall, a hungry little smile on his lips, all my excuses fail me.
He’s so beautiful. I don’t even know how I handle myself when he’s around. That mouth, those hands. It’s even worse now that I know what he can do to me if I just stop being so stinking uptight and give in to what I really want.
A little lust and slutty behavior can go a long way.
But I can’t bring myself to cross the line. Instead, I quickly look down at the floor, trying to make myself seem small and meek.
“Not tonight,” I whisper, moving from foot to foot, an embarrassed flush rolling down my spine. “It’s just, I’m still sore, and—”
“Are you hungry?” he asks before I can keep babbling and spill my guts more.
I’m so mortified I can barely think straight. What is with this guy? Whenever Tigran’s around, it’s like my vision goes blurry and my skull’s dense mud.
“Kind of,” I admit before looking over my shoulder. I can see a narrow strip of the wall and a bookshelf, but not much more. “But my place is a mess—” Not really true; it’s more that I’m not ready to let him see it.
I want my living area to be just mine for now.
“You can come to mine, or we can go down to the dining room.”
The idea of going in there, where he controls everything, or even downstairs makes my stomach churn. I quickly shake my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t.”
“Don’t say that.” His tone is sharp, and it surprises me. He’s glaring now like I did something to piss him off.
“What? Sorry?”
“And stop apologizing.” His eyes hold mine, sharp and intense. His arms are muscular and tense like he’s frustrated. “You aren’t pathetic, Dasha. Stop thinking about yourself that way.”
“Sure. Right.” I take a step back. “I’m going to run away now.”
“Dasha—”
But I whirl and disappear into my room.
God, what is wrong with me? I grab the Tigran pillow, his smell beginning to fade completely, and hug it tightly. Why can’t I just be normal for once? Today was a lot—helping Vito, the movers, fixing my place up—and the idea of going anywhere to eat with my husband just sounds like a nightmare. I couldn’t handle it, so instead of being open and honest about what I need, I ran away like a sad little child.
“Terrible,” I mutter to myself. “Just freaking terrible.”
How am I supposed to handle this arrangement if I can’t even talk about dinner with my husband?
He’s wrong. I really am pathetic.