Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
The last thing I want is for him to find out I’m here. He’ll think it’s for him—not that that’s wrong—and I truly can’t give him any more ideas. He’s already too audacious for his own good as it is.
So I drive away from the underground ring’s arena in the rented sports car. I should leave and, preferably, never come back. It’s clear that Niko isn’t sexually or romantically interested in Yulian and probably never will be.
But other people are interested in Yulian. Such as the fair-skinned blond who left his changing room in the arena before Cyrus went in. I was able to sneak close, blending in with the arena’s staff, and could see the guy walking out, licking his lips.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
I couldn’t care less who that degenerate Yulian fucks as long as it’s not Niko.
And yet…I can’t get the image of that guy out of my head.
Then there’s Cyrus.
Always fucking Cyrus.
A light flashes in my rearview mirror and I squint, then my shoulders tense. Despite the darkness, I can make out the man on the bike who’s flashing his lights at me.
I’d recognize him anywhere, especially now that he’s half naked, his helmet on, and speeding to catch up to me.
Yulian.
So he did recognize me.
Fuck.
I hit the gas, speeding down the empty coastal road. The sea breeze rushes through the half-open window, filling my nostrils with the smell of salt.
The moment I think I’ve shaken him off, his headlights flare in my mirrors. He surges forward, and within seconds, he’s beside me, mirroring my every move.
Keeping one hand on the handlebar, he waves at me, then points ahead.
As if I’ll stop just because he asked me to.
The audacity.
Something Yulian has in excess.
I push the speed, but he matches me, gliding in parallel no matter how hard I go—still waving like a reckless bastard. Who the hell rides a motorcycle half naked, bandages in place of gloves, with no sense of safety whatsoever?
Someone with a death wish, obviously.
Headlights flash at Yulian from the opposite lane, but instead of dropping back, he floors it, shooting past me and flying up the hill.
Gripping the steering wheel tight, I hit the brakes so hard, the seat belt digs into my chest at the impact, and my whole body lunges forward.
The other car blares its horn, the sound ripping through the silence of the night, as Yulian cuts in front of me, speeds ahead, then swerves—stopping dead across from me.
I grab the steering wheel firmly as the car comes to a halt, and so does my heart, because what in the ever-loving fuck—
Both my hands are trembling slightly on the steering wheel as I look up.
Through the windshield, I see Yulian’s sitting on his bike, one foot on the ground, one hand on the handlebars as he waves at me one finger at a time.
This motherfucker—
I release my seat belt and swing the door open, then stride toward him. My hand instantly wraps around his throat, choking him in a fraction of a second.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole? You have a death wish?”
“Nah, my wish is something less than that, actually,” he strains, tapping my arm. “A kiss, if you must know. From you, of course.”
This damn—
I shake him a few times with my grip on his throat, feeling the tendons tense beneath my fingers. “We could’ve died.”
“But we didn’t, because you stopped.” I can’t see his eyes beneath the helmet, but I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’ll always stop for me, won’t you?”
I tighten my grip on the bastard, then shove him away. He loses balance and nearly falls ass-first on the street.
But I know I can’t have a conversation with the asshole, not when he always seems to be in the perfect mood to piss me off.
“Why did you stop? I was starting to get into the kinky stuff.” He removes his helmet and shakes out his damp hair.
I stop cold.
My eyes lock on him in ways that scare the hell out of me.
Despite my attempts to deny it, Yulian looks like the living embodiment of attractiveness and ruin even with his bloody lips and bruised cheek. If anything, they add to his unearthly, primitive beauty. Bathed in moonlight that slips in and out of the clouds, he doesn’t look human. He looks supernatural. A monster born to haunt the night.
An anomaly.
Strands cling to his forehead until he shoves them back with one hand, his bicep flexing, veins stark even in the dim streetlight. I catch the veins running thick across his arm, down his abs, and disappearing under the waistband of his shorts—
“I’m up here, Mishka.”
My eyes snap to his face as he hangs the helmet on the handlebar, the blue and brown colors of his irises glinting like an animal on the hunt.