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)
His brother stares at me, his jaw unhinged. I smile at him. "What do you need help with?"
He speaks in a rush of words, making sure he can get it all out before Rafail cuts him off impatiently. “We were supposed to receive thirty crates. Usual supplier. But only twenty showed up, and there’s something off about what came. The stamps on the crates don’t match the manifesto, and half of the supplies are from another manufacturer.”
“Motherfucker,” Rafail mutters, tugging his shirt on. His gaze darkens as he thinks this over.
“What do you think I—” his brother begins, but I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head.
“I got you a chance to talk to him. Don’t push your luck. Sounds like a good catch, but I’m sure your brother can handle it from here.”
Semyon blinks in surprise. I gesture toward the door, a silent command for him to leave the way he came. What does he think this is, a democracy? I’m still getting to know Rafail, but even I can see the fire building in his eyes, coiling like a dragon ready to snap its jaws and burn him to bits with his fiery breath.
“My wife is right,” he says in a very dragon-like voice. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
"But—" his brother continues. I actually flinch. There’s only so much I can protect him from.
"I said I'll handle it," Rafail barks, and finally, thank god, Semyon bolts when Rafail takes a step toward him, his body tense with barely controlled energy.
“Keep up the good work!" I yell after Semyon because I feel as if I need to protect him or something.
I turn back to Rafail, who is staring at me with a mixture of frustration and something else on his face. "What? Do you always talk to them like that?"
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like it’s familiar… having siblings. Siblings… sometimes harsh to each other but loyal to the core. It’s all familiar too—a dance that I’ve danced once before and maybe still know the steps—as if from another life.
His low growl of a voice doesn’t surprise me but catches my attention. “Don’t do that again.”
"Now, listen," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm not going to stand by and just let you bully everybody into submission. That’s not how this works, not if you want me to actually like you."
"Bully everybody?" he says, as if shocked I accused him of such a thing.
I catch a flicker in his eyes, but there’s something beneath the surface that tells me I hit a nerve, that I’m standing on quicksand, and one step further, I may not be able to yank myself out.
Oh well.
"Yeah,” I continue. I can feel my eyes dancing at him. “Bullying. You’ve tried it with me, but luckily, I… kinda like when you get all bossy. Sometimes.”
What? Why did I turn this into flirtation?
He gets in my face, his breath hot on my chin. I can almost see fire dancing in his eyes. I reach my hand to his face, loving the way the rough stubble’s grown a little thicker. I shiver. Yum.
"I detailed what punishment looks like, Anissa. Maybe I’ve changed my mind about going down to breakfast." He takes me by the hand and then, in one swift motion, lifts me into his arms, marches to the bed, and tosses me down.
"Rafail—" I go to protest, but in the next minute, my wrists are bound in front of me with white satin. Jesus. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you your place,” he snaps, rolling me over to give me a sharp slap to my ass before he's gone in a flurry of temper and heat. The door slams shut behind him.
"Very charming!" I yell after him before I let out a scream of frustration. God, just when I think I'm starting to see a little side of his humanity, that there's maybe hope for the two of us? He pulls this shit.
Voices rise and fall in the hallway. Well, fine. He can tie me to the bed, therefore I can eavesdrop, dammit.
I recognize his voice, engaging with a female one, but I can’t tell if it’s Zoya—the one who’s quickly become my favorite. He’s protesting something, and from the sharpness in his tone, I can tell he’s telling someone off again. I haven’t even met his second sister yet. Yana?
The other night, in the bath, for a moment, I thought that there was hope. I thought that maybe there was a chance that my brutal husband… maybe wasn't so brutal.
Perhaps I was wrong.
Or maybe we need sex to bring out the humanity in him.
I stare up at the ceiling and assess my pain level. My leg does hurt, and so do the lacerations on my arm, but the medication he gave me is starting to kick in. The lingering memory of the dream I had last night is only that now—a memory. I can't remember the details, and I'm not sure I want to. There's something about it that was unsettling, something about it I can't quite shake, though I'd be hard-pressed to even tell the details now. My stomach churns with hunger, and I definitely need some food. I need to settle my stomach, though, so I'm not sure food is what's going to do it for me.