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He was almost exactly where she’d thought he’d be.
She braced her stomach muscles and kicked. Hard. Her foot connected with his thigh and with a shout he stumbled into a nearby bookcase. She smiled, despite the bandana, a low chuckle in her throat as she focused on the stranger standing behind a slender desk.
Their eyes met, her stomach dipping precariously as she realized who it was.
“Oh, fuck,” he said, recognizing her in that same moment.
Oh, fuckwas about right.
His name was Dmitri Kuznetsov. And just as she’d feared, this situation was suddenly raised to a whole new level.
Grand.
She might have met him as a child, but the Kuznetsovs had never been amenable to keeping idle company. Plus, her father hated Dmitri’s father with a passion. Some old feud she didn’t even know the origin of. She doubted even he knew it at this point. The seething disapproval had morphed into a matter of principle. She knew her brother, years back, had tried to broker peace, but the recent bad blood was now too fresh for any peace talk. And here she was finding herself picked up and placed somewhere in between. The outcome would depend on the man before her.
Broad shoulders filled out the white shirt he was in, sleeves rolled up showing muscular forearms, a leather belt encircled slender hips, strong legs filling out dark grey pants, a week-old tan telling her he had recently returned from some sort of travels. Business or pleasure, or maybe a bit of both, knowing how the dragon boys rolled. His hair was a mess of dark brown locks. His eyes were shockingly green.
They’d widened when they met hers. Hers had widened too. They were stuck staring at each other until Dmitri turned his gaze on Gregor, irises burning golden with his inner dragon fire, sending a fair warning for Gregor to preferably not so much as breathe or risk retribution. Gregor had regained his balance but looked thrown off by the expression on Dmitri’s face, where the rage was quiet but unmistakable. Even to someone as self-absorbed as Gregor.
How could she ever have thought of spending her lifetime with him? How had she let him fool her so completely? She was smarter than this. The shame burned through her veins, but she kept her eyes fixed on Gregor, feigning calm, focusing on how the gag was digging into her cheeks to distract herself from self-damnation. She didn’t need the guilt right now. She needed the indignation. No matter her faults, he was the dickweed in this scenario.
“Have you lost your mind?” Dmitri demanded.
“What are you talking about?” Gregor asked, eyes rounding with stupidity.
Dmitri would have none of it, crossing to the other dragon and delivering a hard punch to his nose, making Gregor double over, hands cradling his face.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “What the hell is your problem? She’s worth double at least! She’s a Kumarinova, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea what they’ll give you to get her back?”
“What they’llgiveme?” Dmitri exclaimed, delivering a second blow to a recently straightened up Gregor. “Are you trying to start a war?”
“What?” Gregor whimpered, down on one knee now, clearly trying his best to avoid another hit to his face. “No, I just thought this was a better deal. What, with Semyon Kumarin driving your father out of the city and all, I thought this would be aperkfor you. You know?”
“Shut your mouth,” Dmitri said, voice carrying a low growl at the back of his throat.
Gregor drew a breath, but then bit his tongue, lowering his gaze to the floor. The view was satisfying, but she wanted out of her gag. She made a noise to at least attempt communicating this, getting those unsettlingly green eyes on hers again. Dmitri observed her, amusement passing over his features, as though she was a sight to behold. She was sure she was. She was wearing her Fuzzy Kittens pajamas. She had no shoes on. Her blonde hair was in a bun that was decidedly coming undone. She didn’t look the part of a Kumarin. He looked every bit the Kuznetsov. Straight-backed and quietly, infuriatingly patient. His eyes narrowed as he was coming to some form of decision.
“No point in screaming,” he said as he approached, hands held out as if wanting her to know they were empty of any weapon.
As though the hands of a trained Kuznetsov couldn’t kill her in a second.
She wasn’t going to scream.
They were in his house. His house was on an estate, miles from any other living being. Screaming would be pointless. Besides, Kumarins didn’t scream.
The relief of the bandana being removed was delightful. She moved her jaw, licked her lips, looked up at Dmitri as he tossed the bandana, soaked in her saliva, aside.
“Just let me go,” she said.
“Oh?” he asked, reaching out and gently undoing her bun, tugging the scrunchie out of her tangled locks with surprising care.
It did what he’d surely meant for it to, leaving her somewhat stunted as to what she should throw at him next. She needed to keep a clear head, not let him rattle her. She knew how this game was played. She knew it better than her father had ever given her credit for. It was knowledge she’d collected over years of watching him from quiet corners, whenever he deigned to allow her into one of his meetings. To take dictation, as he liked to call it. No recognition, not even so much as a hint that he’d want her to learn anything from it. But she’d wanted to learn and so she’d sat in, she’d kept quiet, and she’d listened to how men like her father talk with other men like him.
Women didn’t shoulder the mantle of a ruling family. She was expected to find a mate and bear sons. Once she did, there was the possibility the ruling head would step down, but not before. The mantle had to be handed off to blood. That was how it had always been done. Truth was, she’d kept herself on the sidelines, but she’d wanted that mantle her whole life, whether she was the one wearing it, or one of her children.
The desire so strong that it had brought her to contemplate bearing Gregor’s offspring.
What a joke.
