Page 74 of Fierce Pursuit

“Clothes for the lady as well. Size six in a dress. And eight in jeans. A small in lingerie. Size 32C bra.” Her measurements were burned into my touch memory.

At that, Marina stiffened.

I didn’t look at her. Instead, I plucked the room’skeycard from the receptionist’s outstretched fingers, then reclaimed Marina’s wrist, tugging her toward the elevator.

The moment the gold doors slid shut, sealing us in the scent of leather and lingering perfume, Marina wrenched her arm free.

Her eyes blazed, fury burning away the exhaustion. “What?—”

“No.” My voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to ask questions.” I stepped into her space, forcing her against the mirrored wall. “Not a single fucking word, or the spanking I gave you in that train car will seem like child’s play.”

CHAPTER 19

MARINA

He dragged me from the elevator the second the doors slid open, his grip unrelenting.

My wrist throbbed from how tightly he held it, but I didn’t fight.

Not with the way his entire body vibrated with barely leashed rage.

He shoved the suite door open, pushed me inside, and slammed it behind him.

Click.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place might as well have been an iron bar slamming across a dungeon entrance.

I turned just in time to see him press his hands flat against the door, shoulders heaving with every breath. His head dropped forward for half a second, as if gathering himself. Then he turned, eyes dark and wild, a predator pacing the bars of its cage.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

I blinked. “What?” I paused then dropped the jacket and shawl I’d just shrugged out of onto the tiled entrance so I didn’t ruin the furniture or carpet with mud. Of all the things I expected—yelling, threats, maybe even another punishment—this wasn’t one of them.

He didn’t hesitate. “I said, take off your clothes.”

The very first thing I had wanted to do was get out of these mud-caked clothes. The long drive in the heated car had turned the mud dry and crumbly, flaking off in dark chunks that scattered across the vinyl seats every time I shifted my weight. Each movement caused the stiff fabric to scratch against my skin, a constant reminder of my failed escape attempt.

But I refused to give Kostya the satisfaction.

“Absolutely not.” My arms crossed over my chest on instinct. “What is wrong with you?”

His head snapped toward me. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the dried mud that still streaked his face. Even covered in dirt, he looked dangerously handsome—and I hated myself for noticing.

“What’s wrong with me?”

The words cut, low and incredulous. He took a step forward, his chest rising and falling as if he could barely breathe through his anger.

“Are you serious right now? You want to know what’s wrong with me?”

Another step.

The backs of my thighs hit the edge of the couch.

“What’s wrong with me is that I came here to save you from being murdered by a fucking sociopath.”

His voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings, swallowing up the room’s quiet, refined luxury. His hands raked through his muddy hair, then dropped to his sides as he stared at the dirt in disgust. “And every goddamn turn I take, you’re right there, making my life harder.”

He paced, his movements sharp, restless, a tiger in a too-small cage. “I had to chase you through downtown Chicago. Do you know what that got me?” His arms flew out, his laugh bitter. “Arrested.”

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