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“Not so good,” I mutter, wishing I had the power to just disappear from here. Like in theHarry Pottermovies—poof and gone.
He tilts my chin up with curved fingers, forcing me to look at him. His tone is gentle. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I blink, startled at the warm, almost sympathetic look in his dark eyes. “You mean…”
“We can go right now, get you into bed with an ice pack on your forehead. Then first thing tomorrow, I’ll get you in to see a top neurologist, have them run some tests.”
“Oh, no, thank you, I have an appointment with my parents’ doctor this coming week and—wait, no.” I press the heels of my palms to my throbbing temples. “I can’t just leave. It’s my party, and there are all these people—”
“So they’ll party on without you. Who gives a fuck?”
I stare at him, my heart pounding erratically as I drop my hands. “What about the announcement? I thought—”
“Six months.” His tone hardens, all traces of warmth fleeing his gaze as he rises to his feet. “I’ll give you six more months to get used to the idea of us. Go to Columbia, study what you wish, and when you come home for winter break, we’ll choose two dates—one for the announcement and one for the wedding itself.”
For a moment, I’m certain I’ve misheard him about the six months. Stunned, I’m about to ask him to repeat what he said, but he’s not done speaking yet.
“I’ll give this to you on two conditions,” he continues. “First, you will see a doctor for the headaches. Immediately. And second, no more pot or illegal drugs, prescription or otherwise.” He bends over me, gripping the arms of the chair as his eyes drill into me. “Can you promise me that?”
“Yes! Absolutely.” For six more months of freedom, I’d promise anything.
“Good. And there’s one more thing…” His eyes are like black diamonds as he brings his face closer, his voice dripping with menace as he says softly, “Have all the fun you want with your friends in the Big Apple, but know this: any man who tries to touch you will regret it for the rest of his very short, very painful life.”
Chapter11
Present Day, Location Unknown
My cheeks burn as I stare into Alexei’s eyes, unable to pull my hands away from where his palms are pinning mine to the table, the bright sunshine making it impossible to hide from the truth of his words.
I did want him as a young teen, even if I didn’t understand it at the time. And by my eighteenth birthday, I was ripe for the taking.Histaking. As much as I dreaded a forced marriage, I wouldn’t have been able to resist falling into his bed after the party if the pills hadn’t made me so sick.
Only I can’t admit that now. I can’t give him even more ammunition against me.
“I wasn’t myself that night,” I say unevenly. “I was high. You know that.”
His jaw tightens, and he releases my hands to lean back in his chair. “Yes, you were. High and sick with it. And like a fool, I took pity on you, giving you those extra six months.” His lips twist. “Little did I know what it would cost me.”
Pity. So that was his motivation. I’ve wondered about that for years. Even after my world shattered that winter, a part of me remained curious about his motives that night, whether he’d given me the reprieve out of some semblance of kindness or because he’d found me repellent.
Now I know. And I don’t know how I feel about it, whether it changes anything. Because another part of me, one that I only recently realized exists, has always resented him for those few extra months… that little bit of extra freedom that proved so costly for both of us.
If he’d pushed ahead with the engagement announcement on my eighteenth birthday, would I have been home that awful winter night, or would I have been inhishome, his bed, far away from my parents’ penthouse?
If I’d already been officially his, would the events of that night have even taken place?
My throat closes up, as it always does whenever I recall that terrible evening, and tension squeezes my temples in a merciless vise. Swallowing against a fresh wave of seasickness, I look down at the table, where my hands are now clenched together, my knuckles white… as white as the faint white scar on my right forearm. With effort, I unfurl my fingers, noting with a corner of my mind that my red nail polish is still intact, still unchipped. Unlike me.
I lift my gaze to Alexei’s face, unshed tears burning like acid behind my eyelids. I shouldn’t say it, I know, but the rebuke blasts from my lips, as illogical as it is revealing. “You should’ve stolen me then, right after that party.”
“Yes,” he says, and for the first time, his onyx gaze reflects pain. My pain. His voice is heavy with regret as he says, “I should have taken you then, no matter how sick you were. Or at the very least, I should’ve stopped you from returning home that winter evening, even though your six months weren’t up.”
Chapter12
6 Years and 9 Months Earlier, Moscow
“Mama, I’m heading over to Natasha’s,” I say in a falsely cheerful tone as I stick my head into the media room, where my mom is glued to yet another soap opera. “I’ll be home late.”
She glances my way, her eyes red and swollen. Her voice is thick, clearly hoarse from crying as she says, “But you just flew in this morning.”
