I hate forcing someone to speak with words instead of violence, but considering we’re doing seventy down a freeway, I have no choice. “Get inwhatfirst?”
My fists clench when he replies, “Zariah.” Her name alone gets my blood pumping, much less what he says next. “It’s not often you get virgins around these parts, let alone ones as pretty as her. I guess that’s why her father protected it so fiercely. He knew one day it would pay dividends.”
I stare at him. I don’t mean a little stare; Istarestare.
“Zariah is a virgin?” I ask my question as if I am one too. I hate my high tone, but it is understandable. What Kostya said is right. The chances of finding a virgin in our industry over the age of consent is rare, much less one as primed and as ready to be ravaged as Zariah.
A semi roaring past our SUV rattles the window next to my head, but I keep my eyes locked on Kostya’s. For some fucking reason, I don’t want to miss his verbalized reply. I can see the truth in his eyes, heard it during his earlier confession, but I need additional confirmation. I like forbidden, and you can’t get more forbidden than untouched fruit.
What the fuck?
No. This is not happening. Zariah is enemy number one. She lured Dominique into her home knowing there were men there waiting to kill her. This isn’t about claiming a victory every red-blooded man wants to claim. I’m interested in his reply purely from a business standpoint.
I gave Zariah a pardon—a pardon that required her to pick between being a chambermaid or a whore. If she picked the latter, I need to ensure Velika requests top dollar for her first exchange. Virgins are a pot of gold under a rainbow. We’ll make more from Zariah’s first sale than we will the hundred that follow. This is just business. Nothing more.
Yeah, right.
If my hardening cock doesn’t reveal I’m a liar, me requesting for Kostya to take me home within a second of his confirmation is a sure-fire sign. I had intended for Zariah to pay her penalty with her life. Now I have other intentions. These are less noble than my first.
Chapter 7
Zariah
Istare at my reflection in a large vanity mirror as I struggle to gather my thoughts from the past four hours. It’s so surreal—all of it. The room I’ve been placed in is nicely decorated with antique furniture, a large four-poster bed, and an attached bathroom decked out with the latest and greatest accessories, but everything about this place feels cold and heartless.
I guess a prison isn’t supposed to be homey.
A frown wrinkles my forehead when I notice the bruise on my neck. It’s purple and angry, filling me with even more confusion. My body’s response to Asher’s clutch. . .ugh!I’ve never been more ashamed. I understand that I’m “untouched,” but that doesn’t mean I’m a naïve virgin whose cheeks bloom with heat at the thought of being kissed. I’m stronger than the imbecile I portrayed earlier tonight. The spirit Velika held shows there is a place for women in our industry, I’ve just got to fight for it.
Starting now.
With my eyes locked on the mirror, I remove the frumpy dress Lenin requested I wear to maintain my modesty while he guided me from the torture chamber Asher planned to kill me in to my room. I’m not worried about the bathroom door hanging wide open. I heard the lock slide into place when Lenin shut the main door behind him. I’m trapped in here. A prisoner in my own room.
The shards of drywall sprinkling my black bra fall to my feet when I undo the clasp at the back. My panties are the next to go. They’re soiled and dirty, a stark reminder of how I embarrassed myself earlier tonight.
After switching on the shower faucet, I dump my ruined clothing into the bin next to the toilet. The brimming drawers I took in upon entering assures me they won’t be needed. I also refuse for anyone else to bear witness to my tragedy. I’m panicked enough wondering if Asher read my body’s controversy without worrying about others.
Air hisses through my teeth when I step under the spray of water. I left it on cold, hopeful the punishing temperature would remind me that I’m not here on a holiday. Even though I didn’t commit the crime, I still have a penalty to pay—only it’s for years earlier.
Fighting through the shivers wreaking havoc with my body, I unbraid my hair. The springy locks that drop halfway down my back give me three seconds of relief before the bitterly cold water takes my hair hostage.
I stay under the spray until my toes are as blue as Asher’s eyes. It’s a liberating time that reminds me of everything I’ve already survived. I no longer need to feel fear because I faced my worst nightmare head on. Besides, fear is only temporary. Regret lives forever.
Turning off the tap, I step out of the shower and reach for a towel—a towel I didn’t bring in with me.
Shit.
Water slips off my body to puddle on the floor when I pad into the main section of my room, eager to fetch one of the towels I saw on the bed. My hurried steps freeze when I detect that I am being watched. Asher is in the far corner of the room. He has his shoulder propped against the wall and his eyes fixated on my painfully erect nipples. He has removed the jacket I felt grazing my chest when he pinned me to the wall, and the laces of his black boots are undone. He is wearing a shirt, but its fitted design favorably showcases the ridges of his body.
When his tongue darts out to moisten his top lip, reality hits me like a freight train. I’m ogling his clothed form while I’m butt-ass naked.Can I be any more stupid?
With a half-squeal/half-groan, one of my arms darts up to cover my chest while the other drops between my legs. Asher’s response to my nakedness is nowhere near as mortified as mine. He smiles a devilishly wicked smirk as lust fires through his hooded gaze.
You’d think his arrogance would alleviate the hardness of my nipples. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest. If anything, it makes them capable of cutting glass. And don’t get me started on the wetness I can’t blame on a shower. Even with him having the sneer of a murderer, Asher is an extremely handsome man, so clothed or not, my body can’t help but respond to him.
Pathetic. I am pathetic.
“W-why are you in my room?” I want to blame my stuttering on my unnaturally low body temperature, but unfortunately, that isn’t the case. I’m scared, slightly turned on, but mostly confused.
