He doesn’t offer us a drink.
“You know,” he says conversationally, swirling the whiskey. “When I first acquired Emma, I wasn’t sure there’d be enough interest, but I’m starting to think this is an entirely new marketI’ve discovered. And a lucrative one. If they want a virgin every time, they’ll keep coming back.”
My bear is desperate to break free, to put himself between our mate and the predator circling her. I dig my nails into my palms, fighting for control. He deserves to have his head ripped off. He really does.
But only after Emma is safe.
Kozlov is disturbingly thrilled at the success of his new venture as he settles into an armchair, crossing one leg over the other and positioning himself with one arm draped along the back, attempting to look perfectly at ease. “I’ve got a lot riding on this. And so do you. So don’t fuck it up, or Jake will pay the price.”
Emma says nothing. She’s barely moving at all.
“Good,” he says, that cold smile returning as he takes her quiet hostility for acceptance. “Now we wait.”
12
EMMA
The fire crackles in the tense silence, flames dancing in shadows across the walls while Kozlov sips his whiskey and watches me like a cat watching a mouse. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have gone white, and try to remember how to breathe.
Bodhi stands behind me, far too big to sit safely on the antique furniture. He stays close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Every few seconds, I hear the soft creak of boot leather as he shifts his weight. When he rests his fingers on the back of the sofa, not touching me, but almost, I recognise it for what it is. Reassurance.
But nothing anyone can say or do is going to make me feel any better right now.
I’m still reeling from the pantry. My skin feels too tight, overheating and torturously unsatisfied. When I shift on the sofa, a jolt of pleasure shoots through my core, sharp enough to make me catch my breath.
And it feels shamefully wrong to still be on the precipice of coming when I’m facing a monumentally dangerous situation like this.
My flimsy underwear is soaked through, the evidence of how close I came to falling apart against him now cooling against my skin. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the way his hands gripped my thighs, that barely contained power ready to be unleashed on me.
The doorbell echoes through the house, and Kozlov rises from his chair, smoothing his jacket.
“Ah. Right on time.” He sets down his glass and moves toward the door. “Remember, Emma. Smile. Be charming. First impressions matter.”
The threat underneath his pleasant tone is unmistakable. I force my spine straighter and arrange my features into something I hope resembles composure. Much as I want to fuck up the auction for Kozlov, I don’t think humiliating him publicly is the way to go.
Kozlov opens the door, and a couple steps into the suddenly overcrowded room.
The woman is older than I’d expect, mid-forties perhaps, with elegant blonde hair that’s swept up in a sophisticated chignon and diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. She’s beautiful in a well-maintained, expensive way. Her eyes sweep over me with the cool assessment of a surgeon looking for flaws to be fixed.
I assumed she’d be younger, bending to the will of her rich, possibly abusive, definitely manipulative husband. But this woman, far from being naïve and submissive, looks like she’s equally in charge of the decision-making process.
“Pretty. And I like that she’s not some runaway teen.”
Because it makes this more palatable that I’m of legal age?
I want to scream that she’s a vile disgrace of a woman, but I don’t. Instead, I bite back the retort that’s dancing on the tip of my tongue and keep my expression neutral.
Because it’s the man who makes my stomach turn, and I can’t force my eyes away from him. My finely attuned senses know that he’s the immediate threat in the room, understated and well-hidden, but bone-chillingly lethal nonetheless.
He’s younger than his companion, maybe late thirties, with a handsome face that might be appealing if not for the vicious hunger in his gaze as it locks onto me. His eyes travel down my body slowly, deliberately, lingering on my breasts, my hips, the hem of my skirt.
“Quite lovely,” he murmurs, and the word slithers across my skin. ”Well done, Mr. Kozlov.”
Behind me, Bodhi goes rigid. The air around him seems to thicken, and I resist the urge to lean back into his strength. He gets the same feeling I do.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth.” Kozlov’s voice is warm as he gestures toward the sofas. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I offer you a drink?”
“Scotch,” the man says, his eyes never leaving me. “Neat.”
