Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I stared at him. Silent. Calculating.
One of the few useful lessons my father had ever taught me—silence was a weapon.
Zaitsev, arrogant as ever, mistook it for interest. He kept talking, filling the space with his own noise.
"I wouldn't expect you to marry her, of course," he went on. "She's beneath an Ivanov. But a loyal underling? Someone who needs a reward, perhaps.”
Beneath an Ivanov.
Fucking idiot.
I let my gaze shift back to her.
She sat stiffly in her bonds, her spine straight despite her restraints, not in submission, but in defiance. A woman holding herself together by sheer will.
I needed to see her face.
Look up, I silently commanded.
She didn't move.
But then, a flicker.
Just for a fraction of a second, dark blue eyes met mine.
And I saw the truth.
Zaitsev was wrong.
His daughter wasn't plain. Far from it. She was beautiful.
But more important than that, she was furious. Not afraid. Not broken.
She wasn't cowering. She was calculating. Waiting. Biding her time.
My interest deepened.
Then I saw it, the shadow of a bruise forming on her cheek.
The pounding in my ears grew deafening.
He hit her. Hard.
This man, who dared stand across from me and prattle on about alliances, had raised a hand to his own daughter. Had tied her in a chair in a freezing cabin wearing barely anything but a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
He thought our families were alike.
He thought we were the same.
He thought wrong.
"Of course," he said, still unaware he'd already sealed his fate, "she is merely a gesture of goodwill. The real deal is in the contracts. My men will run girls from Russia straight through to California. No one will touch them if they belong to the Ivanovs. And you? You'll get a cut."
My lip curled.
Ivanovs did not get involved in the sex trade, in any form. Period.
He leaned against the cabin wall, smug. His son slouched beside him, picking at his teeth, unconcerned.
I inhaled deeply, letting the rage simmer just below the surface.
Control. Always control.
I turned my attention back to her.
"What's her name?" I asked.
Zaitsev blinked, as if surprised I cared enough to ask. "Viktoria."
Viktoria.
I let the name settle. Let the weight of it press against my ribs.
"Do we have a deal?" Zaitsev asked.
I looked at my right-hand man and gave a single nod.
The gun was out before Zaitsev even registered the movement.
His son lunged for a weapon.
My men were faster.
Zaitsev senior was pinned to the rough-hewn table, a gun pressed to the back of his skull. His son restrained on the wood floor, zip ties cutting into his wrists, a boot pressing into his spine.
Their pathetic cries and pleas were white noise as I focused on the soft rasp of Viktoria's breathing.
I crossed to her, pulling a knife from my pocket. Her eyes widened as I approached, but she didn't flinch when I bent to cut her bonds. The ropes fell away.
I took her wrists in my hands. So pale and fragile, as if I were holding the bones of a bird. My thumb swept across the angry red welts.
She shivered and tried to pull back.
My fingers closed around her wrists. "You've heard what your father and brother planned," I said. "What do you want?"
She refused to respond.
Accustomed to being obeyed, I leaned forward, resisting the urge to brush her hair away from her face. "Viktoria? I asked you a question."
After a long moment, the lush black fans of her lashes shifted. She lifted her gaze to clash with mine.
There was cold fury in their ocean depths.
She was something different.
Something unexpected.
She swallowed. "I—I didn't hear."
Liar. It was clear her refusal to answer had more to do with ill-advised defiance.
Her voice wavered. Not in weakness. In restraint.
My hands moved to the tops of her bare thighs, my fingertips brushing the hem of her cloth shorts as I stood. "Tell me what you want, princess."
CHAPTER 2
VIKTORIA
This was a trap. It had to be. No man had ever asked what I wanted.
The question was, how did I twist this in my favor?
First, I needed a better read on this man they called Artem.
He was handsome and well-dressed, but there was a sinister coldness to him. The way he stood there, silently assessing. His eyes tracked every minuscule movement I made, cataloging weaknesses. Like a fucking snake ready to strike.
This man was not my savior. I’d be just trading one terror for another.
He sighed as he released my wrists and rose.
Despite taking a slight step back, he stayed close, towering over me, the fabric of his suit pants brushing my knees. The heat from his body radiated against my skin, a stark contrast to the bone-deep chill of the cabin.
"Returning you to your father’s…care…is not an option. So I ask again, what do you want?"
I rubbed my wrists, wincing at the raw, rope-burned flesh. I had to resist the urge to run my open palms over my thighs to erase the lingering warmth of his touch.