I genuinely don’t want him to worry, but I don’t want him to think I’ve tossed him aside and didn’t care enough to give him a heads-up.
On one hand, I hope Roland sees through the text and comes searching for me anyway, just to get me away from Sergey. But on the other hand, I don’t want him to get involved. Not when the man I’ve been forced to marry seems hellbent on keeping me for himself.
It’s insane. The idea alone is a reminder that I need to get as far away from him as possible.
And yet…my torturous body reacted differently when he said it.
He claimed me so openly and without hesitation, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, it stirred something in me. Warmed me in a way I’ve never felt before.
But that’s crazy—he’s being crazy.
Before, I wanted to believe he was doing all of this just to get back at Yuri, but now, I know that isn’t entirely the case.
Now I know without a doubt that it’s because of me. Because he has created some absurd fantasy in his head due to stalking me for God knows how long.
It’s delusional, and I shouldn’t be doing anything he says. I shouldn’t listen and pick out something nice to wear.
But I don’t have much of a choice.
Given all of the designer things he had ordered for me, I don’t exactly have any undesirable options. Even the sleepwear could seem like an intentional statement piece if I really felt like it.
All the while I pull on a black dress with thin straps that cross over in the back, I remind myself that this isn’t for him. If anything, it’s for me.
And if he’s going to force me to go out with him, then I’m going to do whatever I can to feel confident enough to resist him.
Once I’m ready with my hair done as much as I can be bothered to, I find the bedroom door unlocked, and Sergey is already waiting in the hallway.
He leans a shoulder against the wall like he has nothing better to do while he absently scrolls through his phone, but the second he sees me, a small grin curves his lips. It’s almost like he knew what one I’d choose before I even knew myself.
As much as I hate saying it to even myself, he looks good. Dressed in dark slacks and a white button-down that’s carelessly undone by several buttons, showing off the edges of tattoos around his chest, he looks ready for a night out. The watch on his wrist glints under the light, making him look even more expensive.
“You clean up nice,” he comments, eyeing me again while he straightens himself out and puts his phone away. “I’m not used to seeing you in much else other than coveralls.”
I glare at him slightly, well aware that he has surely seen me in more when I didn’t know he was watching me.
“I’d rather be in a garbage bag.”
“I can arrange that…but that might spoil the night,” he hums, gesturing down the hall. “Shall we?”
Still unimpressed by him, I don’t say anything while we go. I don’t have to, fortunately.
With no other choice but to comply, we walk out of the house, and the car waiting for us outside is sleek and dark, like it was freshly washed and polished. The driver opens the door for us wordlessly.
I slide into the back seat without thanking him, even if I normally would in a different set of circumstances. Sergey joins me a second later, and the door shuts behind us with a low thump. The silence between us is stifling.
Casually, he stretches an arm across the back of the seat, invading more of my space than I appreciate, but still without touching me.
Irritated, I try to shift closer to the door, hoping to push away the smell of his cologne and aftershave, regardless of how nice it is.
“Where are we going?” I ask quietly.
“Out. To have fun.”
I huff to myself, but it lacks genuine amusement. “Because taking your kidnapping victim out for the night is ideal.”
“You’re still mad about that?” He asks more flippantly than I appreciate.
Glancing at him, I maintain that irritation like it’s the only thing I know. “Are you kidding?”
