Page 68 of Velvet Chains
The phone buzzes again, insistent. Biting back a curse, I scan the screen. A text from an unknown number.
First message: “This phone is yours.”
Second message: “Do not share the number with anyone else. - Victor.”
I blink. Read it again.
What the hell?
He gives me a phone, then tells me not to use it?
Annoyance flares in my chest, chasing away the residual haze of lust. Of course, he’d find a way to micromanage me, even from afar. God forbid I have a way to contact the outside world without his permission.
I’m half-tempted to text him back with a strongly worded opinion about where he can stick his fancy new phone. But before I can fully indulge in that little fantasy, a familiar voice drifts up from outside.
“Lu Lu!” Ser’s voice is muffled through the window. “Drag your butt down here, Sleeping Beauty!”
Crap. I forgot I’m not alone here. Gingerly, I sit up, wincing at the twinge between my legs. Apparently, multiple toe-curling orgasms come with a price.
Yup, there it is. The deep, pleasant ache between my thighs, the throb of well-used muscles. I feel like I’ve been on a sex marathon. Which, let’s be real, isn’t that far off from the truth.
I limp to the window, trying to work out the kinks in my stride. The view outside makes me pause, my mouth falling open.
Ser is lounging on a picnic blanket in the middle of a freaking vineyard, looking like something out of a catalog. Next to her, James is bouncing little Lucas on his knee, grinning as the kid shrieks with laughter.
It’s like a scene from a movie. Or a hallucination. Maybe Victor fucked me into a coma, and this is all some elaborate dream.
But the breeze ruffling my hair feels real enough. So does the insistent throbbing between my legs.
Okay, then. Guess this is my life now.
“I’ll be down in a sec,” I call to Ser, my voice raspier than I’d like.
First order of business: a shower. I hobble to the bathroom, praying my legs will hold me. The tub is a massive marble monstrosity that I would probably try to marry if I didn’t think Victor would object.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I grimace. I look like I’ve been dragged backward through a very satisfied hedge. My hair’s a rat’s nest, my skin littered with marks and stubble burn.
Hi there, Conquest #473. Glad you enjoyed your complimentary fuck.
After a shower that goes a long way toward making me feel human again, I discover a suitcase full of clothes in the closet. All my size. All disgustingly expensive-looking. I don’t want to think about how Victor managed that.
Boundaries, thy name is not Morozov.
I throw on a sundress and finger-comb my wet hair, too hungry to bother with more. The stairs are a special kind of torture, but I grit my teeth and push through. No way am I giving Ser any more ammunition.
“Well, well, well, look what the sex kitten dragged in,” she drawls when I finally make it to the backyard.
I flip her off, collapsing onto the blanket with a groan. “Shut it, harlot.”
She just grins, unrepentant. “Sounded like you had a long night, babes.”
If the earth wanted to swallow me whole, now would be a great time. I can feel the heat blooming in my cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the merciless sun overhead.
“Seriously, though,” Ser says, her grin turning sly. “You’ve hit the jackpot, Lu. Marrying a sex-god billionaire Russian mafia boss? That’s like, the holy trinity of paranormal romance novel heroes.”
James snorts into his wineglass. “Don’t forget the part where he’s also a secret werewolf prince with a tragic past.”
“Ooh, good one, babe.” Serena high-fives him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I smell a bestseller. Pun fully intended.”
