He's too close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin. Close enough that I can see the tattoos peeking out from his collar, the eight-pointed star that marks him as Bratva royalty.
"Stop," I say, but my voice quavers. "I'll shoot. I swear I'll?—"
"No, you won't."
The certainty in his tone makes rage flare hot in my chest. He thinks I'm weak. He thinks I'm some helpless girl who can't pull a trigger. He's wrong.
I adjust my aim and fire.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet goes wide—intentionally wide—and slams into the ornate mirror on the far wall. Glass explodes, shards raining down onto the hardwood floor. The sound echoes, and for a moment, we both freeze.
Then Dimitri moves.
He's on me before I can adjust my aim, before I can even process what's happening. His hand closes around my wrist with bruising force, twisting until pain shoots up my arm and the gun clatters to the floor. I cry out, trying to pull away, but he's too strong, too fast.
He spins me around and slams me against the wall, his body pinning mine. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. His chest presses against my back, solid and unyielding. One hand still grips my wrist, holding it high above my head. The other braces against the wall beside my face.
"Let me go!" I struggle against him, but it's useless. He's at least six inches taller and probably eighty pounds heavier, all of it muscle. "Get off me!"
"Are you done?" His breath is hot against my ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine despite my fear. "Or do you want to try something else stupid?"
"Fuck you!"
I try to kick backward, aiming for his shin, but he anticipates the move and shifts his weight, trapping my legs with his. Now I'm completely immobilized, pressed between the wall and his body, and the position is far too intimate for comfort.
I can feel every inch of him against me—the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his thighs, the heat radiating through his clothes. My wedding dress is torn and dirty, offering little barrier between us. When he shifts slightly, adjusting his grip, I feel something else pressing against my lower back.
He's aroused.
The realization sends a confusing mix of fear and something else—something I don't want to name—coursing through me. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. He kidnapped me. He's holding me prisoner. I should be terrified, disgusted, anything but...
"Let me go," I say again, but this time my voice comes out breathless instead of angry.
Dimitri doesn't move. His hand slides from my wrist down my arm, slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he reaches my shoulder, he pauses, his fingers pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my borrowed clothes.
"You want answers?" he murmurs against my ear. "Here's one. You're brave. Stupid, but brave. Most people wouldn't have the balls to pull a gun on me."
"Most people aren't being held prisoner."
"You're not a prisoner. You're under my protection."
"Same thing."
"No." His other hand moves from the wall to my hip, and I suck in a sharp breath. "A prisoner has no choice. You have choices, Alina. You just don't like any of them."
He's right, and I hate him for it. I hate that he's right, hate that his touch is making my skin burn, hate that some traitorous part of me is responding to his proximity despite everything.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, and I'm horrified to hear my voice shake.
Dimitri is quiet for a long moment. His hand on my hip tightens, his fingers digging into my flesh. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, almost strained. "I want you to stop fighting me. I want you to listen. I want you to understand that the world outside these walls is more dangerous than you can imagine right now."
"And I'm supposed to just trust you?"
"No." He turns me around suddenly, keeping me pinned against the wall but now facing him. His green eyes bore into mine, and I see something flicker in their depths—not anger, but something darker, more complicated. Something that makes my breath catch. "I don't expect trust. But I need cooperation. Because if you want to survive what's coming, you need to stop fighting me and start listening."
His face is inches from mine. I can see the individual strands of silver in his beard, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth, and for one insane moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
Part of me wants him to.
