I try to think it through.
Who he is.
Why he doesn’t want to tell me.
None of it makes sense.
“Did someone let you in here?”
Something is wrong.
No one would have let him in here.
“Natalia. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The sound of my name in that rough, deep voice only makes me more nervous.
“What do you want?”
I itch to do something, to fight this, to stop him. I pick up a candlestick from the table and he shakes his head at me, smiling.
“Who are you?”
He sighs, the playfulness gone from his face. “Do you promise to hear me out if I tell you?”
I nod while crossing my fingers behind my back. I’m not promising this man a single thing.
“My name is Aleksandr Zhukov.”
I run for it, dropping the candlestick to the floor with a clatter.
“Natalia,” he calls after me, his voice faintly amused. “You promised.”
I kick the white stilettos off my feet because they’re slowing me down. The stupid corset won’t let me breathe. He’s so much faster.
Just as my hand closes over the door handle he loops an arm around my waist, lifting me off the ground.
His arms are warm and solid and so much bigger and stronger than me that it’s ridiculous to fight him, but I try anyway. Kicking is impossible in this long dress, plus I’m not wearing shoes, but I pound his back with my fists. There’s no give. It’s like hitting a brick wall — I’m only hurting myself.
“I’m not marrying you.”
Aleksandr ignores my protest and carries me calmly across the room.
There’s no effort to the movement and that makes me angry. My lungs are burning and my fists are sore by the time he drops me onto the chaise longue.
He’s unfairly good-looking, for a murderer. Like those snakes with beautiful patterns who are really venomous.
He stands in front of me, folding his arms.
The implication is clear.
If I make a run for it again, he’s going to stop me again.
“You said you would hear me out. You’re going to hear me out.”
“Actually, I didn’t. And that was before I knew you killed my brothers!”
“I didn’t kill Fyodor or Pyotr. I do know what happened to them, though.”
