Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
The perfect murder room. All it was missing were the opaque plastic walls and creepy music from Dexter.
I licked my lips. “Please, whatever happened here tonight is none of my business. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
He stepped closer.
I backed up against the cardboard stack.
He followed, placing his forearm over my head, caging me in.
The air hissed through my teeth as I flinched the moment he raised his arm.
One raven’s wing eyebrow curved as he stared down at me as if in warning.
I stilled.
He moved his hand to cup my jaw, running his thumb over my lower lip. “The problem is… gorgeous lips like these are capable of ugly lies.”
The air seized inside my lungs.
Russian.
He was Russian.
Oh, my God, I was totally fucked.
Everyone knew never, ever to mess with fucking Russians.
They were as cold and rigid as the ice that enveloped their entire country.
Panic made my heart race. I shook my head. “No. I promise. I’m not lying. I won’t tell anyone about how you killed—”
He pressed his thumb against my lips, quieting me. “Shhh, krasivaya. No more talk. Not until I make sure no one is listening.”
“What is crass if vaya? Is that Russian for victim or prey or something sadistic?”
He chuckled. “It means beautiful.”
“Oh.”
The dirty, sexy, hot Russian murderer thought I was pretty.
I must be having some sort of stroke. Was this what happened to a person right before they were murdered? Did all the blood rush to their limbs, depriving their brains of oxygen so they tripped out on bonkers thoughts like ‘gee, my killer is hot’?
His powerful, inked hand closed over my purse.
After an embarrassingly brief game of tug-of-war, he pulled it from my grasp.
Reaching inside, he pulled out my wallet and flipped it open.
Without thinking, I said, “You can take the money inside. And my Metra card.”
Yes, that was going to stop this man from killing me as a witness to three brutal murders.
Thirteen dollars and a public transportation pass.
Once again, he lifted a single eyebrow as the corner of his mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “Vivian Grace Peyton.”
Why did it sound like the devil had just read my name off a registrar in hell?
His voice was so dark and guttural, like the engine rumble of an angry muscle car. This man could wish me a good morning and I’d still think it was a threat. Freaking scary Russians.
He tossed my wallet back into my purse and dropped it at our feet.
Next, his large hands gripped the green Pashmina scarf loosely tied around my neck.
I placed my palm over his fist but wrenched back as if burned by the heat of his skin.
With his sapphire gaze intently on mine, he dragged the scarf off my neck, letting it flutter to the floor on top of my purse.
I swallowed.
The tips of his fingers caressed the pulse at the base of my throat before skimming along my skin to the first button of the pale blue man’s shirt I wore over black leggings. “Tell me, Vivian Grace Peyton. Whose shirt is this?”
My brow furrowed. Was this a trick question? “It’s my shirt.”
He unbuttoned the first button. “No. You are a woman. This is a man’s shirt. I’ll ask again. Whose shirt is this?”
My eyes closed as I resisted the urge to scream, ‘What the fuck does it matter?’ in my panic and fear. “I don’t understand.”
Why did he need to know I’d worn large men’s shirts to cover my big boobs since I was a teenager who tired of getting ogled by her male teachers?
He unbuttoned another button. This one just above my cleavage. His fingertips caressed my skin as he pulled the sides of the shirt open, exposing the white lace scalloped edge of my bra.
He shrugged. “I want to know the name of the man whose clothes you are wearing.”
A piece of shit, lying, cheating ex-boyfriend who stole money from me, so I kept his shirt.
No, wait. Too much.
An ex-boyfriend.
Wait.
No.
A current boyfriend, one who was waiting for me in the parking lot.
“My boyfriend! My tall—”
My head craned back to take in the man’s well-over-six-foot stature before I continued, “My super tall, seven-foot, cage-fighter boyfriend who is just outside impatiently waiting for me.”
Keeping his unsettlingly dark gaze on me, he grinned. “You are amusing when you lie, but I wouldn’t recommend it—not to me.”
The moisture in my mouth turned to dust. “It’s just an ex-boyfriend’s.”
He nodded as he unbuttoned another button.
Knowing I was risking death, I clasped the sides of my shirt together, covering my bra. “What are you doing?”
His hand wrapped around my wrist and placed just enough gentle pressure on the right nerve that I was forced to release my grasp. “I’m checking for a wire.”
My eyes widened. “I’m not wearing a wire. I’m not with the police. Far from it.”
He made quick work of the remaining buttons. “And I believe you.”