Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
My gaze sweeps the room for an exit. I said no reception for the two of us. They can party all night long for all I care.
“This way.” I take her hand roughly in mine and tug her along so she trots to keep up with me.
“Where are we going?”
Ember takes pictures, and Rodion watches, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Home, Anya.”
I tug her into the foyer and march with purpose toward the door. Our men open the double doors for us and stand aside amidst formal wishes of congratulations. I nod, barely acknowledging them.
“You don’t have a driver?” she asks when I lead her to the car parked and waiting by the curb. “I thought you’d practically have hired people to wipe your ass.”
I don’t bother to reply and only click the key fob to unlock the door when Rafail calls from behind me.
“Semyon.”
I turn around to face him. He nods at me, his hands tucked into his pockets. “You sure you don’t want to stay and at least have a drink?”
Why would I do that? I have my favorites at my own house.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“Congratulations,” he finally says. “We’ll be in touch.”
We will.
I’m surprised to hear the click of a car door being opened behind me. When I swivel to face her, Anya’s opening her own fucking door before sliding into the passenger seat with a scowl.
I let it go this time, but she has to know that won’t fly. I lean against the car door, taking up her space and caging her in.
“Don’t ever do that again, Anya,” I say, my voice soft but laced with steel. “Or we’ll have a problem.”
The air between us is charged, electric. For a second, it seems she’s confused when a look of genuine curiosity crosses her face. “Do what?”
She really doesn’t know?
“Open your own car door. That’s my job.” I lower my voice. “Do we have an understanding? If you do that again, you and I will need to have a talk.”
She blinks, disarmed. I wish I knew what I was doing that causes her to look at me like that. For one moment, she’s put her armor down.
I like that. I want to tell her to do it again, but I don’t know why she did it.
“Okay,” she finally whispers, swallowing hard. “Right.”
I nod. “Patience. Be patient if I’m occupied.” I wonder if she needs more explanation. “You’re mine now.”
Doesn’t she know the rules? The expectations? She can hate me, fight me, defy me all she wants—but she’ll never be unsafe. As mine, she will be protected in ways she doesn’t even realize. I’ll walk on the outside of the street. I’ll open her car door. When we’re in public, I’ll know every exit, every potential danger, I’ll note every man whose gaze lingers on her too long. She doesn’t have to like me, but she’ll be safe, whether she wants my protection or not.
I have to remind myself she didn’t grow up like I did. Her father’s an asshole drunk, and her brother’s a selfish prick. Now, anyway. He wasn’t always.
I remember watching her mother work her fingers to the bone to keep that bakery afloat while her husband pissed away their profits.
No. Anya doesn’t understand my expectations, but she will.
I close her car door and take the driver’s seat. We drive in silence for the first five minutes. I’m acutely aware of her beside me—the subtle rustle of her dress when she shifts, the faint scent of citrus and peonies and something distinctly her.
For the first time, I allow myself to fully own the fact that she’s my wife. It stirs something deep and primal in me. I grip the wheel to ground myself.
“Wait, so you don’t live at The Cottage anymore? I thought we’d live there.”
“No. I moved into a place of my own a few years ago, so I don’t live there anymore. I spend a lot of time there though. It’s still my family home.”
“Oh.”
She shivers in the passenger seat beside me, pulling her thin coat tighter. Without thinking, I reach for the temperature controls, adjusting the heat for her.
She notices. Her lips part slightly, as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.
A beat passes. She reaches to turn the car radio on, but I swat her hand away. “Leave it.”
“I like music.”
“Not while I’m driving.”
“Not while I’m driving,” she huffs out, mimicking me under her breath in a petty voice with a sour expression on her face. My hand shoots out and grabs her wrist. The sudden contact freezes her, her pulse fluttering under my fingers.
Is she scared? Did her father hurt her? I’ll murder him.
But I don’t let her go. “Do you enjoy testing me, Anya?” My one-hand grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Do you enjoy trying the limits of my patience, or is sarcasm just a talent of yours?”