He tightens his grip for one agonizing second before he abruptly lets go.
"Go to sleep, Valentina," he rasps, turning his back on me as he walks toward his bedroom. "You have work tomorrow. And I have eight million dollars left to earn."
Chapter Seventeen
Valentina
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Every few days, my banking app chimes with wire transfer notifications. Three hundred thousand from a corporate gala. Four hundred and ten thousand for a private security mission. A half-million from a law firm that wanted him to redesign their protocol.
My mind spins. I don’t understand him. Is he doing all this just because he wants to sleep with me? It makes absolutely no sense.
If he’s expecting some mind-shattering, exceptional lay, he is going to be severely disappointed. In reality, I am incredibly vanilla. I don't enjoy sucking dick; the mere thought of it annoys me, and Viktor is the only man on this earth I have ever actually craved to wrap my lips around. I absolutely despise anyone going down on me—it is entirely too intimate. I even refuse to do standard positions like doggy style because the thought that a man can see my butthole makes me utterly cringe.
I am certainly not a siren. Besides, with just a crook of his massive finger, Viktor could get absolutely anyone he wants in his bed. He is a literal force of nature.
By all logic, shouldn't he be weaker? Meeker? He spent years trapped in a cage. I expected him to hate sex, or be a submissive pet who just did what he was told.
And yet, despite his admirable strength, the trauma is still very much there. He is pathologically untrusting of strangers.Whenever he gets a new consulting offer, he reads over the contract a million times, researching every single name attached, terrified that it’s the exact same trap that got him trafficked. As if I’d ever let that happen to him again. When he eats his meals, his forearm is always braced around his plate as if someone might snatch it away from him at any second. And hospitals, needles, and medications are a complete, non-negotiable no-go for him.
He is traumatized. But instead of letting it drown him, he is fighting his past every single day with a purpose that I just cannot wrap my head around.
What is his goal? His purpose?
Me?
Could he actually be falling in love with me? But why? I am not a charming woman. I am ruthless, stubborn, and I have fucked up with him more times than I can count. What is there to love?
I tighten the belt of my silk robe around my waist. It’s another long night, and Viktor is out working late again.
The house intercom chimes, startling me.
"Ms. Blackwood," the concierge's voice crackles through the speaker. "Apologies for the late hour, ma'am. A courier just dropped off a priority package for you. I've sent it up via the lift."
My brows furrow. "Thank you, Arthur."
I usually don't get packages delivered directly to the penthouse; everything goes to my assistant first. Needing anything to get my mind off Viktor, I walk over to the foyer and pull the cardboard box inside.
I sit at the kitchen island and slice the tape open. Inside, there are no packing peanuts. A neatly folded piece of paper rests on top of a black object.
I pick up the paper first. It is a manifesto of absolute, unadulterated hate.Corporate whore. Ruiner of lives.Disgusting, arrogant bitch.My eyes skim down the paragraphs of vile cuss words until they hit the final sentence:Do the world a favor and just kill yourself.
I drop the paper and look into the box. Resting at the bottom is a fully loaded handgun. I’m not really scared. It isn't the first time someone has wanted me to off myself. It isn't going to happen.
I’m surrounded by top-tier security. And even though Viktor is out earning money I’ve told him a million times I don't want, he has personally vetted every single guard on my rotation. I am completely safe.
Who could it be? Noah Davis? It’s highly probable. My legal team has spent the last month blocking every single capital deal his startup has tried to close, bleeding him dry as punishment for his little egg stunt. A ruined little boy is exactly the type to send a death threat.
Or Harrison Vance? But there's no way he’s an idiot big enough to mail a firearm to a Blackwood estate.
I reach for my phone to dial my investigator, but the front door lock clicks before I can. Viktor’s home.
I grab the gun and slide it behind my back, forcing my shoulders to drop, trying to maintain my composure.
