Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Now here I am, sweating, mostly naked, and bashing at the keys of this beat-up old beast. This morning it sounds like a bomb’s going off over the strings, the thing’s playing so loud.
Which is why I almost don’t hear the man in my apartment when he says my name.
But then he says it again, and I slowly realize there’s a person behind me and my brain’s not just malfunctioning at the moment.
I cut off my playing and whirl around, my arms flying to cover my breasts.
And there he is, standing in the hallway, the last person in the entire world I’d want to walk in on me right now.
“I haven’t heard you play in years,” Alex says. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, which has the effect of making his already impressive biceps even more incredible.
I have about a second to enjoy his physique before I shriek and look around for my shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say, snatching it up from the back of the couch and cover myself with it. I’m still in just panties at the moment, but that’s like being in a bathing suit, right? That’s not such a huge deal?
Except for the way he’s looking at me.
I’ve known Alexander Sorokin for a very long time. He’s been best friends with my oldest brother Stepan since they were little kids, and I practically grew up with Alex constantly lurking around the house.
Brutal, vicious, handsome Alex, the shining star of the Bratva, the man with such a bright future ahead of him.
Hating his stinking guts has to be one of my oldest memories.
Where I was never good enough, Alex was pure perfection.
“That’s not such a nice way to greet an old friend,” he says, gaze burning into me. It’s making me deeply uncomfortable in a way I can’t even begin to describe, let alone examine, probably because I’m not used to having humans around much less ones that speak my language natively.
Much less ones that look like Greek gods in sleek black suits with perfectly defined muscles and cheekbones straight from a fashion magazine.
Alex has always been handsome, but age has only made him even more beautiful, like the moment he crossed into his thirties he suddenly took on that masculine, hardened look, and it’s really, really working for him.
This man is downright sinful.
He’s too attractive, too masculine. The energy rolling from him is pure intensity and domination. If I didn’t know him so well, I might be afraid.
Embarrassment flows through me in heavy waves. I’m absolutely mortified—how long as he standing there and how much did he see?—and I don’t know how to handle it.
Heat fills my cheeks, and he won’t stop looking. Shouldn’t he turn away? Give me some privacy? The bastard broke into my apartment, and now he’s staring at my body like he wants to own it.
It’s like he can’t help himself.
I swear, growing up, he never once looked at me this much. It was like we were opposing magnets, forcing each other away. When I walked into the room, he hurried to get the hell out of there, and vice versa.
Now though, we’re in my cramped little Parisian apartment, I’m mostly naked, dripping with sweat, and my brother’s best friend is looking at me like he wants to destroy me.
“Alex, I’m going to ask you one more time. What the hell are you doing here? And how did you get inside?”
“Picked the lock,” he says dismissively. Classic Alex, treating me like I don’t have any worthwhile thoughts in my head. “And your father sent me to find you.”
I open my mouth to tell him off—but come up short.
My father sent him?
It’s been over a year since I ran away from home and I haven’t heard a word from my family.
Not a call, not a text, not an email, nothing at all.
Aside from the initial threats and rage-messages, but after a few days, even those dried up. My allowance still appears in my bank account which is the only way I’ve survived for this long, and I assume that’s the only way they know I’m alive. Since I’m spending his money.
Something feels deeply wrong.
“Why you?” I ask, inching toward the couch. I can see a pair of shorts on the floor near there, and if I’m careful, maybe I can grab them without giving him too much of a show. “And seriously, would you stop looking at me?”
“Can’t help myself,” he says, his voice low and warning. I freeze in my tracks as a jolt of strange excitement runs down my spine. “What were you playing just now?”
“Some song I made up,” I answer, rattled. What the hell is going on? I’m thrown by Alex’s sudden appearance, but even worse by my intense vulnerability.
I’ve never once cared what this asshole thought about me.