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)
Zoya would tell me nothing, nothing of substance.
He walks over to me and folds his huge frame into the small chair at my side. "Feeling any better?” The rough, angry tone of his voice sets me on edge.
I shake my head. It feels like my brain rattles against my skull.
"No," I say. "I’m not. I have no memory of anything. I don't even know the name Anissa; it's foreign to me. Don't know why I'm in this bed. And Zoya, as nice as she is,” I amend because she is kind, "won't tell me anything."
"That's because I ordered her not to,” he says sharply. He nods to her as if silently thanking her for her obedience.
"So you're the boss around here?" I don’t bother to hide my disdain.
"I am.” His cold, calculating gaze defies me to challenge him.
I swallow hard. "I have questions.”
Narrowed eyes meet mine, and he speaks in a half growl. "I'm sure you do."
Frowning at him, I try to sit up, but it proves impossible with my wrists restrained. I do, however, manage to keep my voice strong and sure. I don’t know who this arrestingly handsome asshole is, but I’d like to find that out as soon as possible.
“You act as if you hate me, and I don’t even know who you are. So do me a favor and fill me in so I know if I should hate you back and decide if your lack of hospitality is warranted.”
“Lack of hospitality?” he snarls. “You’re warm and fed, and that’s more than you deserve.”
I purse my lips. "I don’t know much, but I can say with confidence you and I have very different concepts of hospitality. So why don’t you tell me what I supposedly did since it’s an obvious point of contention between us.”
Despite his stoic expression, mild surprise registers in his eyes before he leans forward. Rising to his full height, I half expect him to do something drastic, but he only stares down at me as if assessing me.
That's when I notice he has a small silver metal key in his hand. Thank god.
But he’s in no hurry. He takes his time unlocking me, his hands brushing mine. Rough fingers graze the tender skin at my wrists as he reaches for my hands above my head and slips the key in. With a soft click, my wrists swing free. God, it feels good to be able to move them again, even though it hurts.
Silently, still scowling, he takes my wrists in his large, rough hands and massages the chafed skin with his thumbs. I try to push away, to sit up, only to have him push me back down with a firm hand on my shoulder.
I swallow and stare up at him. I’m nothing close to free, even if I’m unshackled. I release a shuddering breath.
Leaning over, his voice is a low, dangerous murmur, each word a promise and a threat. “You say you don’t know who I am. We’ll cover that. I’ll explain in vivid detail what I expect of you. You’ve been brought here because you ran from me, and I had to make sure that never happened again.”
I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”
He says all this as if it’s just a matter of fact. With narrowed eyes, he shakes his head. “You think this is cruel, you being chained to a bed? Disobey me again, run from me again, and you’ll see firsthand what cruel really feels like.”
My jaw drops open as his hand drifts to my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse, just enough to make it a little harder to breathe. I’m caught in his gaze, pinned into place by his oppressive, all-consuming presence.
I eye him suspiciously. I may not know much about my current situation, but I know this—nobody restrains anyone this securely, this uncomfortably, just to keep them safe.
What the hell did I do to this stranger?
"My ankles too," I remind him quietly. He moves the sheet at the bottom of the bed, and my cheeks immediately heat when I realize I'm wearing nothing but a short tee and a pair of panties. My instincts tell me to cover myself.
"Evacuate this room,” he snaps to everyone else as he pulls the sheet back over me. Everyone leaps to obey, even little Zoya.
We’re alone. I’m staring up at my captor, his angry eyes riveted on mine. “I know you say you don’t remember who you are, but I don’t buy it. It’s hard to imagine someone forgets her own husband that easily.”
My brain can barely catch up to the words. Husband?
"I can't be your wife,” I whisper, trying to return an excuse. “I have no… I have no ring,” I say wildly. Doesn’t a wife wear a wedding band? “And you had me tied to this bed. Who does that to his wife?”