“Petyr, listen to me,” I start rambling the second we’re moving. “This is a mistake. You don’t want this. You don’t want me. We can fix this. We can annul the marriage—no one has to know. We can just call the whole thing off!”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’m a terrible wife.” I keep blurting the first things that come to mind, desperate for something to stick. “I can’t cook. I hate cleaning. I snore. Loudly! You’ll regret this, I promise.Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not worth it. I mean, putting up with me? I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy!”
His hands stay steady on the wheel, as tight as his jaw. He’s not even looking at me. He’s thinking, I can see it, but it’s not about what I’m saying.
Somehow, that terrifies me even more.
I sink back into my seat, clutching my purse like a lifeline. The dark outline of the mansion comes back into view, looming larger the closer we get. My pulse skitters wildly.
And then we’re parking, and he’s emerging, and grabbing me, and hauling me up and over his shoulder again. We mount the stairs. We step inside, swallowed up again by the darkness of the Gubarev mansion.
Then the front door closes behind us, slamming shut with the finality of death.
The lock goesclick.
My last hope goes with it.
12
SIMA
Petyr doesn’t say a word as he drags me back to the bedroom. His grip is like iron around my wrist. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, my chest tighter with every step down the endless hallway, but I don’t fight him. He’s mad enough as is.
He shoves the bedroom door open. “Get in.”
I obey.
“Sit.”
Again, I obey.
I perch stiffly at the end of the bed. My fists clutch the sheets, milky white against bloodred. I feel like a naughty kid about to be disciplined. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure he can hear it.
Petyr steps in close. He’s tall enough to tower over me, bulky enough to block the moonlight entirely.
Then, suddenly, his hand is around my throat.
My heart stops. The pressure isn’t crushing, not to the point that I couldn’t breathe if I wanted to—but God, do Inotwant to.
I realize, with a slow sort of clarity, what’s about to happen here.
He’s gonna kill me, isn’t he?
Petyr’s face is inches from mine now. I can see every pore, every gold speck in his whiskey brown eyes. The way his nostrils flare like a provoked bull, like he’s trying really hard not to lose whatever scrap of control he’s got left.
I pray he makes it quick.
His grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough that I understand what a bad idea it would be to struggle. No doubt, that’s exactly the point he wanted to make.
“Try that shit again,” he growls, “and I’ll lock you in this room until you give me an heir.”
His warm breath brushes against my skin. I shiver before I can stop myself. The worst part is, I’m not sure it’s entirely fear.
He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint scrape of his calloused fingertips against the soft dip of my throat. My pulse is rabbit-quick, like a caught prey. I wish I didn’t have to see how much his nearness affects me, but my body betrays me at every turn.
Right on cue, I blush. I hate myself for it. My mind is screaming that this man is dangerous, that I should be terrified. In a way, I am.
