My shoulders rolled forward, my entire body shook, and more tears spilled down my cheeks. All I could do was try to contain the noise, to shrink and hide in that dark corner, letting Darius's body block me from the rest of the room so no one would notice and think I was trying to get attention.
"Wrong." His voice was a low growl. "I need you exactly where you are. What do you need, little one?"
It would have been so easy to melt into him, to let him take care of me. I took a step back, clutching the pashmina around me.
But he didn't let me go far. His hands caught my shoulders, keeping me close.
"I need you to let me go. Please, just take me home."
That was all I wanted. I wanted to go home and crawl onto the safety of my couch, wrapped in the quilt that Edith made for me.
Everything was just too much.
The weight of the necklace around my throat, the blisters that were forming on my feet, my mother's hatred and disgust at my mere existence, and the constant reminder that my life wasendangered. Years of emotional neglect collided with the stress and the fear, and I couldn't take it.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. All I could do was cry, and I needed somewhere safe.
Darius looked behind him.
I saw him signal to one of the men in his family, and then, without another word, he swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, crushing me against his chest and pushing through a staff door.
I hid my face behind my hair and on his shoulder, not wanting anyone else to see me like this.
Ladies didn’t cry in public. Only attention whores cried in public.
My mother's voice echoed through my head, and I couldn't make it stop. The more memories of her disapproval that echoed through my head, the harder I cried.
Cold air bit into my skin when Darius kicked open a door that led behind the center. The Range Rover pulled up, and he opened the front passenger side and yelled something in Russian.
The men got out, and he slid me into the front passenger seat before taking the keys and climbing into the driver's seat.
His hand immediately found my thigh, gripping possessively even as he shifted into Drive.
"I'm not taking you home,maya soloveyka," he said, his thumb stroking slow circles on my inner thigh through the slit in my dress, and the last shred of hope I had died in my chest as he pulled into DC traffic. "I'm taking you back to my hotel.
"You're mine tonight," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I take care of what's mine."
CHAPTER 21
DARIUS
Every single tear that slid down her beautiful face was a stab to the gut, and I had no idea why.
She was beautiful when she cried.
I intentionally said shit, did shit that I knew was going to cause those delicious tears to fall down her pretty face.
But these weren't tears I caused. They weren't tears of fear over a threat that wasn't really there. They weren't tears of defiance, anger, or even the tears of pain and pleasure mixing in that almost narcotic-like vice.
These tears weren't harmless fun… they were soul-scarring trauma. Something my little songbird should only know about from the lyrics others write. Never firsthand.
Every sob out of her lips was gut-wrenching, and I shouldn't give a fuck, but I did. My fingers turned white from my grip on the steering wheel, knuckles straining against skin as I maneuvered through traffic. I cut off a Mercedes, then swerved around a taxi, my foot slamming the accelerator until the engine roared.
I reached across the console, my hand finding her knee through the silk of her dress. She didn't react. Didn't flinch,didn't push me away. Just stared out the window like she wasn't even in her own body anymore.
That was worse somehow.
I tightened my grip, my thumb stroking once, twice, trying to ground her. Trying to remind her I was here.
