Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I’m the kind of guy who takes whether something is being offered or not, but having Kayla repeatedly offer up her submission changes me. Makes me want to give a little more. Which is what makes this dangerous territory. I shouldn’t let this thing deepen when I’m about to break it off. So I don’t tell her the truth: that I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than cancel our weekend.
Our food comes—steak for me, salmon salad for Kayla, and we eat in silence until Kayla asks, “Do you kill people for Ravil?”
The words charge the air between us, creating an electric barrier.
My brows slam down as my pulse quickens. “Why would you ask that, Kayla?” My gaze travels to her throat, marking her frantic pulse. The worst possibilities run through my head—she’s an informant. She’s wearing a wire. That’s why she’s asking about Ravil and my job and who I’ve killed.
But no—Kayla’s such an open book. She couldn’t play me like that, could she?
Her lips part, but no further sound comes out.
I reach across the table and pick up her wrist, finding her pulse with my fingers. “Why do you ask?” I repeat, with a harder edge to my voice.
She swallows. “C-curiosity.” Her pulse is quick because I scared her, but it doesn’t grow faster when she answers.
I flip her wrist in my hand and brush my thumb across her pulse lightly to soothe away my harshness of a moment ago. “You really want the answer?”
Her pulse skitters beneath the pad of my thumb. I can tell by her wide eyes that she already knows the truth, and it frightens her, but she nods.
“Yes. I told you I was a killer when we met. It wasn’t a figure of speech.” My admission thuds onto the table between us like a heavy stone, crowding our plates and silverware, an ugly centerpiece no one wants to look at. “All of them deserved it, not that I believe that will save my soul.” I meet her gaze steadily. I resolved myself to being an executioner right after I dropped the first body for the Russian army. I never looked back. There’s a place in this world for men like me. We serve a purpose most aren’t willing to fulfill. But that place isn’t anywhere near Kayla Winstead. She’s far too pure. She’s not innocent, not weak, but she’s whole and undamaged. A man like me doesn’t belong in her bed or her life.
She still hasn’t spoken. I release her wrist and sit back in case she’s ready to throw her napkin on the table and run. I wouldn’t stop her.
“I’m not a nice man. I told you that when we met.”
Her lashes flicker over her eyes, like she’s trying to keep them wide, to keep tears from spilling. “Do you remember what I told you?”
I remember. I remember everything about that night. The way it felt to break her. The way it felt to hold her in my arms, afterward, and put her back together. The unspeakable sexual power that gave me.
I clear my throat. “You said you trusted me.”
She nods. “I still do.”
“Blossom.” It’s a sigh. Or maybe a prayer. I should set her free—right now—but I can’t bring myself to speak the words. I’m not ready to give her up. So instead, I say, “I promise I’ll let you go the moment you want out.”
She draws back, and I watch a shiver move through her.
“You’re scared,” I murmur, reaching for her fingers across the table and weaving mine through hers. “Are you scared of me?”
“No.” She shakes her head.
“Good. You’re safe with me, blossom. Always. You say the word, I back off. You know that, right?”
She has a safe word. I’m telling her it extends beyond our play. If—no, when—she says red to this relationship, it ends. Because I know that day will come.
3
Kayla
After dinner, I fish in my purse for my bottle of eye drops and shake it, but it’s empty.
Pavel watches, his face impassive. “You okay?”
“My eyes are itchy from allergies. I need to pick up some more eye drops. Maybe I can run to the drug store tomorrow.”
“I can go tonight,” Pavel offers. “There’s one on the corner. I’ll take you back to the room and walk over.”
“I can walk with you,” I protest, then quickly tack on a “Master.” It’s funny how much of a gentleman he is when we’re out of the bedroom.
“You want to walk over? In your heels?”
“Yes,” I say. The truth is, I don’t want to be separated from him. There’s so much emotional distance between the two of us still, I can’t stand any more physical. Especially when I only have him for a short weekend. I also don’t mind the heels. I have a high pain threshold—which comes in handy being Pavel’s slave.