Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Of course, he is.
I wish I’d learned the meanings of the tattoos. Has my groom killed before? Tortured?
My mouth goes dry. Raped?
Will he force himself on me?
My palms emit cold sweat. These people are so dangerous that they struck fear into my father–and he’s a monster in his own right. He wouldn’t have uprooted me from college in Paris unless he absolutely had no other choice. My mom wouldn’t have let him. The decision had to be completely out of his control.
Benjamin escorts me to the passenger side of the SUV and opens the door.
Oh good. It’s nice to know that the killer I was promised to has nice manners.
He waits until I get in, like a chauffeur. I refuse to look at him until I realize he’s leaned his forearm against the top of the car and is peering down at me.
“Is there a gun in your purse, Lara?” His voice has a teasing quality.
My knuckles whiten on the purse, and my gaze snaps up to where he looms over me. I see amusement in his brown eyes, and the slight curve of his lips.
Cold washes through me. He’s so confident, he’s not afraid of a loaded gun.
No answer comes to mind. My jaw clenches as I glare up at him.
“You planning on shooting me?” Again, he’s completely relaxed. Seemingly amused by me.
Oh, look at my cute bride who showed up with a gun to kill me.
I try and fail to swallow. My face burns. My legs tremble, ready to run like a gazelle away from the lion chasing me.
He holds his palm out. “Give me the gun, printsessa. We’re not going to hurt each other in that way.”
In what way are we going to hurt each other, Benjamin?
That thought has me imagining a measured hurt. The pain-for-pleasure type.
Wait, no.
I am not imagining Benjamin Baranov tying me up and whipping me with a riding crop.
That’s…nuts. I’m not interested in that.
I eye his tattooed knuckles, wondering what it would be like to have them closed around my throat while we have sex.
Will he force me?
Why am I picturing him forcing me?
I don’t want that. Of course, I don’t.
I don’t move, so he makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers. “The gun, Lara.” The teasing quality drops away from his voice. I hear cold authority.
I sit there and debate what would happen if I said no. Or if I pulled it out and pointed it at him.
I realize that despite his relaxed pose, his gaze is intense. Focused. If I pointed the gun at him, I’d have to be willing to pull the trigger.
As if he reads my thoughts, he shakes his head. “You’re not a killer, printsessa. And you’re safe with me. Or you will be if you behave.”
Something about his gentle coaxing breaks me. Tears burn behind my eyes.
I don’t want him to see them, so I thrust the whole purse his way and look away as he opens it and removes the pistol, tucking it into his waistband like a pro.
When he slides into the seat beside me, I ask, “Are you a killer, Benjamin?”
He turns to study me. I hold my breath under the intensity of his gaze.
“I’ve killed.”
I can’t breathe.
He starts the SUV and puts it in drive. “And I’d kill again–for you.”
The breath leaves me in a whoosh. I’m suddenly lightheaded. Shocked and slightly turned on.
“Why?” I demand.
A slight tension radiates from his shoulders. When he answers, the words are flat and emotionless. “You’re my wife.”
Chapter Two
Baron
After stopping at the courthouse to get our marriage license, I take my bride to Baranov House, or the Gulag as it’s known on campus. Lara gave me the cold shoulder for most of the trip, and I didn’t try to warm her up.
I’m not the charming guy–that’s Anders or Leo.
I’m the one who strategizes and keeps his mouth shut. The guy who stays five steps ahead of everyone else, so I can control the outcomes around me. My mom calls it PTSD. I call it being a leader.
Right now, I have a lot of mental plans to reconfigure. I need to figure out how to protect an unwilling bride. I’ll have to control her to keep her safe, but I have a feeling she’ll fight me tooth and nail.
My brain flashes to installing her permanently in the house dungeon.
Yes, we have a dungeon downstairs. It’s why Baranov House is known on campus as the Gulag. Rumors about it are wild, and I encourage all of them. Some say it’s a bratva torture chamber–the place we bring our enemies to exact revenge.
Others know–it’s a sex club.
We almost never allow outsiders to enter it, which raises the mystique of the house to epic levels. Nearly every partygoer here spends the entire time trying to get invited downstairs. That’s what enables me to charge exorbitant amounts of money to people on the nights we decide to allow invite-only entry.