His arm tightens around me. "You will. Because you're a smart girl who knows when she's beaten. Because you don't want to find out what happens to people who disappoint me. And because..." His lips brush my ear. "Deep down, you want to. Your body wants to. I can feel it."
He's right. I can feel it too—the way I'm leaning into him instead of away. The way my breathing has gone shallow. The way heat is still thrumming through my veins from that kiss.
I'm so screwed.
***
The rest of the funeral service passes in a blur. I stand beside the casket and accept condolences and pretend to grieve while Pyotr watches from the back of the room. I can feel his eyes on me. Heavy. Possessive. Patient.
Like a wolf watching prey that's already caught.
When it's over, when the last guest has paid their respects and left, Sofia finds me in the hallway. She's crying again.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, pulling me into a hug. "I'm so sorry, Vera. Your father—he made this deal. I tried to talk him out of it but he was desperate and—"
"It's okay." It's not. But what else can I say? "It's not your fault."
"Pyotr's not a bad man," she says desperately. "Dangerous, yes. But he'll take care of you."
"I know." I pull back, trying to smile. It feels wrong on my face. "I should go."
She packed my things during the service. Everything planned, controlled, no choices left to make.
The black SUV is waiting outside. Pyotr leans against it, checking his phone. He looks up as I approach, pocketing the device.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. I'll never be ready.
He opens the passenger door. "Get in."
Run. Scream. Fight. Do literally anything except get in that car.
But I think about Sofia. About my cousins. About the casual way he threatened them.
I get in.
He closes the door behind me, walks around to the driver's side, and slides in. The interior smells like leather and expensive cologne, something dark and woodsy that shouldn't affect me but does.
He starts the engine. One hand goes immediately to my thigh, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of my funeral dress.
I look down at it. At the tattoos on his knuckles. At the way his hand completely covers my leg.
"I know you're scared," he says, pulling onto the road.
I don't answer. What's the point?
"I know you think I'm a monster."
Still nothing.
His hand tightens on my thigh. "But you're mine now. And I take care of what's mine."
I finally look at him. The sharp profile could have been carved from marble. Silver threads through his dark hair catch the late afternoon sun. The wolf tattooed on his throat shifts as he swallows, seems to prowl across his skin.
"How old are you?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
"Forty-five."
