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)
“Don’t distract me.” Once I’m dressed, I march over to his door, feeling a strange sense of purpose.
Back home, I stuck to my little nook in the house. I ventured out sometimes, but mostly I stuck to what was comfortable, and never in a million years did I go into anyone else’s space.
Turning the doorknob and stepping across the threshold is a huge deal for me.
This is a strange man’s area. He’s my husband, and we’re sleeping together, but still. This is dangerous. Everything I’ve done in my life has been about avoiding this exact scenario.
In here, I don’t have any power.
I can wrap myself in the illusion of safety when I stick to my own rooms. I can tell myself that I’m in control.
But in Tigran’s suite, he’s the one in charge.
“You’re okay,” he says from behind me. He’s dressed again in loose black joggers and a white t-shirt. “Take your time.”
I force myself deeper down the hall. He stays with me, but at a little distance, like he’s trying to be respectful. I wiggle a hand behind me, reaching for him, and he closes the gap between us.
Our fingers intertwine. My smooth, sheltered skin meets his scars and calluses.
“It looks so… normal,” I say with genuine surprise as we look around his living area.
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, frowning a little. “More… opulence? Maybe some dead bodies hanging from the ceiling?”
“I keep the corpses in the basement, love,” he says, offhand and smiling.
I laugh even though it’s not funny. Confidence bubbles up through me as I stare at his place.
It’s a mirror image of my own, only decorated in his style. The walls are dark, the bookshelves are packed with leather-bound tomes, and the overall theme is nautical. Old brass railings, ship wheels, paddles and oars, even some antique lanterns and buoys. His couch is black leather, and there’s no TV in sight, only a fireplace that looks like it gets some decent use.
“I know this is only right next door to my space, but I haven’t been inside someone else’s room like this in a really long time.”
He stands close and bends down to kiss my neck. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and I like that he’s asking. It gives me even more confidence, enough that I slip my hand from his and start to explore.
He watches as I brush my fingers over the spines of his books and count the number of whiskey bottles on his overfull bar cart. I frown at the state of his throw pillows—they’re honestly pretty ugly and pathetic—and nudge some fireplace ash that needs sweeping. There are pictures on the mantle, all of his family. Arsen features prominently in many of them, though there’s one that looks recent, of Tigran with a little boy on his shoulders.
“My nephew,” he comments when I linger on that one. “His name is Roman.”
“I want to meet him,” I say, which surprises me. I’ve never really cared about kids before. But now we’re actively trying to get pregnant, and I figure it’s a good idea to spend some time around them.
“Whenever you want. I’m sure they’d love that.” He absently names more of the people in the photos: cousins, aunts and uncles, all important pieces of the Brotherhood. All people he seems to care about.
We end in his bedroom. I’m scared until I look inside.
“It’s so… empty.” I walk to the end of his bed, stomach twisting. There are four big posts holding up nothing. “Where are the handcuffs I was promised?”
He grins and walks to his bedside table. Inside the top drawer are big silver cuffs sitting on a satin cloth. “I put them away when they’re not in use. I’m not a maniac.”
“Right, that’s much more normal,” I murmur, staring with my mouth open, licking my lips and picturing myself prostrate on that bed, on a man’s bed, my wrists immobilized, trapped, and at his mercy.
I’m gaining more confidence, but I don’t think I’m that confident yet.
There’s a closet, a chest of drawers, a surprisingly clean bathroom, and that’s the end of the tour.
“How does it feel?” he asks, draping an arm over my shoulder as we stand together in the living room again.
I look around, dizzy all of a sudden. I frown to myself, hand on my stomach. A strange, queasy nausea rolls down my spine.
“It feels…” I trail off. This was a good visit. A really good visit, actually. I didn’t panic, didn’t freak out, didn’t run away. But this sudden bout of sickness is confusing.
Because I’m not scared. I’m not even uncomfortable.
I like it in here.
“Dasha? Are you okay?” He peers at me, frowning, hands on my arms. “You look kind of pale.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak and push him back. He grunts in surprise as I run down the hall, past his room, into my suite, and throw myself into my bathroom.