“You saved yourselffor me?” he murmurs.
“I saved myself for my soulmate,” I manage through a shaky breath. I shouldn’t have said that, or what’s next because his hands might find my neck again, but the fight in me persists.
“Mytruesoulmate. Too bad you don’t have a soul. Or a pulse.”
He chuckles under his breath, so absentmindedly it’s as if my insult barely registers.
Because his hand is far more interested.
His finger slips under the top of my bra. Just enough for his knuckle to graze the underside of my breast. Then up, brushing the tip of my nipple.
My breath stutters and an intense panic grips my body, not the sharp, icy fear he stirs inside me, but something far more humiliating. Because even though I don’t want him touching me, my body doesn’t seem to understand the difference.
In fact, Ihatethat my pulse jumps beneath his knuckle. I hate that he probably feels it. I hate the dark, knowing look he’s giving me, like he expected me to respond just as I am.
I look away, cheeks burning, wishing I were made of stone instead of nerves and goosebumps.
But Gustav doesn’t look away. He watches me react. He watches everything.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “Has any man touched you here?”
His finger sweeps the slightest bit, and despite my mind’s cries, my body betrays me as my nipple grows firm and taut. His touch is so faint I shouldn’t feel it.
But I do.
“No,” I whisper. “Nohumanhas touched me there.”
His eyes sharpen. “Human?”
“Only a Russian demon lacking manners.”
He smiles, pleased rather than insulted.
A real smile, with raw, feral delight at being compared to something infernal.
Then he releases the elastic bra strap with a harsh snap.
I flinch so hard my chair creaks.
“Then,” he says with deep, theatrical mourning, “I must apologize.”
He presses a hand to his heart, expression dripping with tragic sorrow.
“Nobody else can fuck you now. Not even for my entertainment.”
My jaw drops.
He looks at the guards. “You hear that?Tis a shame to deprive you of taking turns for my amusement, but keep your cocks in your pants.”
One guard actually snickers. The other looks away, ashamed or afraid. I can’t tell which, but either way, bile rises in my throat.
What hell is this?
He tsk-tsks me, shaking his head as if I caused a tragedy.
“You shouldn’t have told me you were a virgin,” he says. “Now I want to play with you, and I don’t play nice.”
I give him a dead look.
