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)
He was brutal, and it was fucking perfect.
I came twice screaming his name, and he followed right after, his cock pulsing inside me as he emptied himself with a guttural groan.
He untied me before collapsing next to me and pulling me into his arms. His heart pounded against my back, his breath hot against my neck.
"You’re going to fight me every step of the way, aren’t you?" he muttered against my skin, and I could feel the dark promise in his words.
We both knew where this twisted, toxic relationship was heading…and it wasn’t to a happily ever after.
Far from it.
CHAPTER 32
VIKTORIA
I needed to find a weakness, just one thing I could use or exploit.
That was all I needed, and I could be free of that controlling, arrogant bastard.
Direct confrontation didn't work.
Not that I really thought it would, but every time I stood up for myself, I ended up getting fucked within an inch of my life. Then it took hours for the hormones and the pheromones and the dopamine and the warm fuzzy feelings to dissipate enough for me to think clearly.
I had heard of this happening but until Artem, I never knew what they meant when they said sex was like a narcotic.
Amy called it being "dickmatized." When the dick was so good, common sense just left the room, and you were suddenly willing—at least in the moment—to put up with far more than you should.
She insisted it was the female version of pussy-whipped.
After the sex Artem and I had after every fight, I got it.
But dick magic or not, I was not his pet, nor his property, and I deserved to have my life back. I was taking it back. The dick magic would wear off in time, and I would replace him with a good vibrator.
All the orgasms, none of the drama.
I just needed a way out.
Artem had left to go handle some business, whatever that meant, a few hours ago and now I was left to my own devices in this lakeside mansion.
It really was a beautiful place. Bold colors, tastefully done. Practical and well-made furniture and top-of-the-line surveillance equipment. These cameras weren't bodega security specials with blinking red lights. They were small and inconspicuous; if I weren’t looking for them, I would never have seen them.
I flipped off each camera as I saw it and began searching for...something. I started in the office and quickly left when I realized he had never used that desk. There were no papers, no computer, nothing to show someone actually worked there. Just a blank memo pad and a few fancy-looking fountain pens.
There had to be something. I knew Artem didn't actually live here, not even part-time. The house was beautifully decorated in a way that whispered of wealth and taste. Artem's style screamed power.
I was guessing it was some kind of safe house, and someone else who had similar sensibilities and taste had decorated it. Or he hired someone who had some idea of what he was like, the final design their interpretation of Artem's style.
It felt like him, but it wasn't him.
Still, there was something here. There had to be. I moved from room to beautifully decorated room, admiring as I searched. This would be the kind of place where I would love to be, if it were a choice I made rather than one that was made for me.
Since this wasn't Artem's home, he probably put the security system together quickly. Maybe there was a place that the cameras wouldn't see. Somewhere he missed in his haste.
Even if I was wrong, what else did I have to do? After scouring the second floor and finding nothing—no literal skeletons in closets, no diaries telling me all of Artem's deep, dark secrets, no map titled "paths to escape your brutish captor"—I checked out the downstairs rooms.
There was one hallway that led to a west wing. I hadn't been there yet. I'd explored the main area near the office where I confronted Artem, and the east wing, which contained the room where he took me...but not the west wing...yet.
The hallway was darker, the wallpaper still beautiful, but faded. There were several doors off the hallway, but the white door at the end of it, the only one with chipped, faded paint, seemed to call my name, pulling me closer to it.
I reached out my hand to grab the brass doorknob but before I could turn it, two hands landed on my shoulders to pull me away.
A scream caught in my throat when I heard the cracked voice of an older woman. Her English was broken, her Russian accent thick.
"No, no, kukolka. This area is not for you. It is not ready yet. It hasn't been cleaned. Come, come, I make you lunch."
I was so confused.
The older woman was shorter than me, round, her hair pulled to the top of her head in a severe bun and an apron tied around her waist. I would swear she looked the very picture of a Russian grandmother. She strongly reminded me of my babushka, at least what I could remember of her from my childhood. Right down to calling me kukolka. Little doll.