Kholod stood before me. Those amber eyes burned with a fury more terrible than anything I'd ever witnessed.
"Mr-Mr. Morozov..." James Thompson's intoxication evaporated instantly. Recognizing who I was, his face drained of all color. "I-I was only... I—"
"Only what?" Kholod advanced with predatory grace, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Only eager to die?"
"I... I'd had too much to drink... I didn't realize..."
Before he could finish, Kholod's hand shot out and seized his wrist.
Crack.
The bone snapped with surgical precision. As agonized screams filled the air, the ballroom plunged into absolute silence.
"Kholod!" Isabella's voice pierced the quiet as she hurried over, gathering her skirts, panic etched across her features. "What's happened? You..."
Kholod didn't spare her so much as a glance. He turned, those blazing amber eyes locking onto mine with laser intensity. I pressed against the wall, trembling uncontrollably—whether from my earlier ordeal or his current expression, I couldn't say.
He crossed the distance between us in swift strides.
"Can you walk?"
I managed a nod.
Without another word, he bent and swept me into his arms—one hand behind my knees, the other supporting my shoulders.
"Kholod..."
"Be quiet."
He held me securely and strode through the parting crowd without a backward glance. Every guest stepped aside as whispers erupted anew, but he seemed utterly oblivious.
Dmitri waited with the car. Kholod settled me into the passenger seat before taking the wheel himself. As we pulled away from the arts center, silence enveloped the interior. I huddled against my seat, gaze downcast, that revolting touch still lingering at my waist.
Veins pulsed visibly at his temples, mirrored by the tension in his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
After an interminable stretch, he asked quietly, "Are you hurt?"
I hesitated, then shook my head.
"Good."
That unexpectedly gentle tone stirred something nameless in my chest. The car gathered speed through the darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
Kholod
The steering wheel creaked under my grip.
I floored the accelerator, and the engine let out a deep growl. Outside the window, Philadelphia's lights blurred into streaks—streetlamps, neon signs, buildings whipping by in twisted lines.
Damn it.
I glanced at the passenger seat from the corner of my eye.
Noelle huddled in her ice-blue gown, the skirt fanning out like wilted petals. Her face was pale as death, hands clutching the seatbelt, silent as a fragile porcelain doll. But the images flashing in my head made my temples throb—that greasy hand on her waist, those hungry eyes devouring her body, the ripped skirt...
"Fuck," I snarled through gritted teeth.
