Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Fuck, stop bragging,” Rodion groans. Kinky bastard.
"And keep in mind she'll be your wife," Semyon says quietly. "It might be in your best interest to keep it… mildly cordial."
"And it might be in my best interest to teach her who is the man of this fucking house," I say with chilling decision.
I’ll show her in vivid detail why no one escapes me. I’ll make her beg for mercy. I’ll strip her of every last defense, every vestige of defiance, until she doesn’t know where pain ends and pleasure begins. She’ll learn her place—beneath me, pleading, desperate, begging. And when I finally claim her, I’ll take my sweet time, every stroke a reminder of the vows she tried to escape.
Semyon holds a hand up, his gaze razor-sharp and focused ahead of us. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Look.”
The air is tense but chilly. Winter comes to Moscow and neighboring cities with a vengeance. I turn toward the icy cold and look for her.
What is she doing here? When my uncle got word that she'd been spotted, we left dinner immediately. My stomach growls with hunger.
Dressed in all black, we hide in the alleyway bordering an empty square. A bird crows overhead, and behind closed doors, someone plays the violin.
Her shadow passes by a first-floor window. I've stared at those pictures in my file so many times she's begun to haunt my dreams. The Siberian princess, she’s called. A delicate, precious jewel that I’m going to break.
Yeah. That’s her.
Originally from Siberia, she's in her early twenties, so a little older than my sister Zoya. Slender and graceful, she has delicate, aristocratic features and a pale, snow-like complexion. Her long, almost white-blonde hair spills down her back like moonlight, and the pictures I've seen show ethereal blue eyes that reveal a deep well of emotion. Just by looking at her picture, you wouldn't think she was the type to run away from someone at the altar. She seems far too clever for such a reckless, desperate move.
I wonder what she thinks about me.
She appears fragile, almost delicate, but I sense a fiery spirit. A fiery spirit I'm going to fucking tame.
And then something nearly miraculous happens. We step back when she steps onto the pavilion alone. No old lady, no guards, just my beautiful, willful bride. She stands and looks out, not even turning in our direction, and then she turns back and faces her room. Her voice carries in the cold, dark night.
"I'm going for a walk," she says quietly. No one objects. The older woman is talking with the guards as she looks from side to side. Maybe it's a stroke of luck, or maybe fate is playing its hand and uniting us, but I watch in surprise as she walks down the staircase alone.
The guards are talking with the lady as she quickly slips out.
She’s mine. I haven’t seen her this close before, but now that I am, I note the pale canvas of her skin, her thick, nearly white hair, the delicate bones in her wrists, and the slender breadth of her shoulders. The need to claim her claws at me with inhuman strength.
I want to take her. Punish her for betrayal, for putting my family and my entire empire at risk. At the same time, I want to grab her by her delicate shoulders and shake her. How careless—putting herself on display like this, bathed in moonlight—she's a vulnerable target, ripe for the picking.
Doesn't she know I'm looking for her? Does she have no sense of self-preservation? I watch as she turns away, her delicate hand brushing against her cheek.
Is she… crying? Does she have any remorse?
Or does she know any semblance of freedom she has is about to be snatched away?
“Surround the perimeter," I snap. "I want every exit secured."
But it's unnecessary. She seems completely oblivious to the fact that I’m here.
"Are you sure this is her?" I ask Semyon. "She doesn't look like she's afraid."
Maybe she hasn't quite registered the danger she's in.
“How could it not be her? She’s identical to the pictures we have.”
"She is." She looks exactly like the woman in the picture. The one I've been watching. I've memorized the slender curve of her neck and imagined my face between her breasts. I’ve fantasized about that long, silky hair wrapped around my thick fingers before I pull it. The woman is grace personified. Her skin is as pale as the roses she left fading on our altar. Our altar. The one that she abandoned. And now she’s mine. She is the one I will lay sacrifices upon in atonement.
The older woman comes onto the porch. They speak rapidly in Russian, and my bride laughs. Anger flares in my chest. How could she be so unconcerned? How can she be so blasé about what she’s done?