Page 46 of Stolen By the Don

“Close the—” I start to remind her that she left the door ajar when it dawns on me that I was the one who did it. I left the goddamn door open because I was too tired to be bothered with it.

Groaning, I drag myself into a sitting position, sweeping my hair away from my face. Dinner with Roman? Count me out.

If I could trade half a decade of my lifespan so I didn’t have to see him anymore, I would. Even if I had five years left, I’d do it with no regrets.

“Bad riddance,” I mutter as I flop back on the bed, yanking the covers over my head. As I close my eyes again, my stomach lets out a loud grumble.

Nuh-uh. I’m not hungry. I am perfectly capable of going till morning without eating, even though I’ve only had water all day.

“It’s a mindset,” I mutter, attempting to convince my mind. My stomach grumbles in protest, louder the second time. “Please,” Imoan, slapping both hands over it. “Could you just spare me for one night?”

Another grumble.

Maybe if I lie still and act like I can’t feel anything, it’ll go away.

I last seconds, maybe minutes, before I leave my bed and head downstairs in a sweatshirt and loose-fitting shorts. It’s just dinner, I tell myself. I don’t have to make conversation with him or acknowledge his presence.

I can simply sit at the table, eat, and leave.

From a few feet away, I see Roman hunched over his phone. His eyebrows are drawn tight in concentration, and his fingers are supporting the phone while his thumb dances on the screen. His other hand sits on the table, tapping idly. He doesn’t notice my presence, giving me ample time to slip in, but my steps slow the closer I get.

He looks like he just got in, and it shows in the way his brown dress shirt clings to the hard lines of his chest and arms. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, showing off more skin…or enough skin for my thoughts to make a hard left in the wrong direction.

Firm. Warm. Hard.

My mind floods with a vivid recollection of being cradled against his chest and held in his arms, the heat from the body slowly replacing the cold clinging to my clothes. My gaze dips back to his hand on the table…and I remember that hand grabbing my hips and marking my skin.

Heat floods my face, and I slap my hand on my cheek, shocked at how warm it actuallyfeels.

Sensing my gaze, Roman looks up from his phone, quietly assessing me with eyes that drift from my sweatshirt to my shorts and back in a slow, unhurried motion. There’s nothing sexual about the way he looks at me. It’s detached, like I’m something to be observed without much interaction, but it lights the end of a fuse in my mind, fogging it up quickly.

I hear myself inhale audibly, and his eyebrow quirks with mild curiosity. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” I reply sharply, breaking out of my veryawaretrance. “Nothing.” Berating myself silently, I look away as I hurry to the table, taking the seat furthest away from him.

Whose idea was it to have dinner together, anyway? Not his, I’m sure, because he’s gotten what he wanted. A wife.

And an heir.

Never. I’m not going to be a breeding tool.

It has to be Polina’s idea, and she’d only do something like this because she’s trying to play mediator.

“Dinner’s ready,” she announces, bringing in covered dishes. I watch as she places them gingerly, taking her time to adjust their position.

Huh.I tilt my head, watching her with questions brewing in my head. Why would she play mediator? To appease me, after I asked her why she’d agree to work for someone like Roman? Or maybe she’s trying to show me what she sees in him?

If it’s the former, her efforts are about to go down the drain, because I know what I think about Roman Volkov. Manipulator. Selfish. Greedy. Egocentric. Entitled. Brute.

“I could think of more words,” I mutter under my breath as I glance at him through half-lidded lashes, “but I’ll run out at some point.”

“What?” he asks, looking up at me.

I ignore him, digging into my food. He doesn’t push for a response, turning to his food instead. For some reason, watching him eat annoys me. I know it’s because of how unbothered he is by everything. I’m here, seething, and he’s at ease.

It should be the opposite.

“I went out,” I say, dropping my spoon. He nods half-heartedly without looking at me. “You must know, because you have Sergei reporting to you. He probably told you everywhere we stopped and who I spoke to. And then you went and interrogated them, probably to find out if they know anything about my father.”

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