"Go aheaddorogaya," he says, leaning down so his lips are a hair's breadth from mine. "Scream. Let them know the Morozovs are in town. See how fast this street empties out."
His arrogance is infuriating, but the way his eyes drop to my mouth makes my heart skip a beat. I want to bite him. I want to slap the smirk off his face. I climb into the car, mostly because I don't want him to see how much he's affecting me.
The door thuds shut, sealing us in the cool, leather-scented interior. The driver pulls away immediately, the lights of the street blurring past the windows. I sit as far away from Mikhail as possible, hugging the door, trying to stop the tremors that are finally taking over my body.
My life is officially over.
"You're a coward," I say, because I need to find something to say before I start crying. "Hiding behind your family name and your thugs. Is this the only way you can get a woman to stay in a car with you? Kidnapping?"
Mikhail leans back, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s watching me with a predatory intensity that makes my skin itch. "You stopped having choices the moment you humiliated me in front of both families and vanished."
"I saved us both!" I snap, turning to face him. "You didn't want me. You were probably relieved I ran."
"I was many things," he rumbles, his voice turning into ice. "Relieved was not one of them. My pride doesn't like being a punchline at the social clubs. You made me look weak. You made my family look weak. And in our world, weakness is a death sentence, you know that."
"Oh, please. Your pride is fine. You just wanted a reason to go on a hunt."
"And look how well it turned out," he mocks, his hand reaching across the seat to trail a finger along my jawline. I flinch, but I don't move away. The touch is electric, a spark of heat that makes my breath hitch. "You’re sitting in my car, going to my plane, to live in my house. You’re exactly where you were supposed to be six months ago. Only now, the terms have changed."
"The terms haven't changed! I'm still the woman who hates you!"
Mikhail’s hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back until I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are dark, a storm of blue. "Then you'll hate me in New York. Because you're never leaving my sight again."
The drive to the airport is an agonizing blur. We arrive at a private hangar where a sleek, white jet is waiting. Mikhail leadsme up the stairs, his hand firm and possessive. The moment we cross the threshold and the heavy door seals shut, the full reality of what is happening settles into my bones.
We are alone.
The cabin is a temple of excess, cream leather, polished mahogany, and a bar stocked with enough liquor to drown a fleet. The flight attendant gives Mikhail a quick nod and disappears into the cockpit, leaving us in a silence that is anything but peaceful.
Mikhail heads straight for the bar, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. He doesn't offer me any—bastard. He just stands there, swirling the glass, his eyes fixed on me. I pace the length of the cabin like a trapped animal, my sneakers silent on the thick carpet.
"How did you find me?" I demand, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. The roar of the engines matches the roar in my head. "I was invisible. I didn't use the name. I didn't use the cards. I wasgone."
Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. "I’ve been looking for you from the second you touched the grass outside that hotel, Irina. Did you think I’d just shrug and move on? That I’d let the insult stand?"
"I thought you were too busy being a Morozov to care about one runaway bride."
"Once I decided to stop letting the world laugh at me, there was nowhere in the world you could truly hide," he says, his voice low and absolute. "You could have gone to the moon, and I would have found a way to drag you back."
I let out a dry, sassy laugh. "Is this really about the alliance? Or is your ego just that fragile? Did your pride really not survive a woman leaving you at the altar?"
“Both.”
Bastard!
"You should have been grateful I ran," I scoff, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. "I saved you from a wife who would have hated you every day of your life. You could have married someone who actually wanted the Morozov name."
Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. "I don't want a wife who wants my name, Irina. I want a wife who fears it. And as for hating me? Hate is just love with a different coat on. You were never indifferent to me. Even back in New York, when you were supposed to be Artyom’s, you couldn't stop looking at me."
"Are you crazy? I was looking at you because you were a train wreck!" I lie, my heart rate spiking. "You were the volatile brother who couldn't stay out of trouble. You were the madman, I didn’t want to be anywhere near you! I was looking at you to make sure you didn't set the curtains on fire."
"Oh? Is that what you were doing in Room 4 tonight,dorogaya?" he asks, stepping toward me. He moves with that same slow, predatory grace, pinning me against the bulkhead without even touching me. "Were you checking for fire when your fingers were trembling against my skin? When you were digging your thumbs into my shoulders like you wanted to climb inside me?"
The memory of the massage, of the tingling in my fingers and the heat in my belly, rushes back, making my face flush. "I was doing my job."
"You were hungry," he murmurs, stopping inches away. He smells like whiskey now, sharp and sweet. "You’ve been starving yourself for six months, trying to pretend you're someone else. But I felt it, Irina. I felt the way your body reacted to mine. You can lie with your tongue all you want, but your touch? Your touch is very honest."
"Stop it," I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest to push him away, but they just stay there, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his expensive shirt. "You're just doing this to humiliate me."
