Page 25 of The Contract

Not cruel. Not kind. Just brutish, direct, and unmistakably Russian.“No deal,” he says simply. “You’ll stay.”

I blink. “What? How long?”

God. Great. Now I’m negotiating my captivity like it’s a lease renewal.

He doesn’t even blink. “Until your bruises heal. Or until I decide you can go.”

The words slither around my ribs, squeezing tight. “You can’t just kidnap me,” I say, voice cracking under the pressure.

He’s already halfway to the door when he tosses a look over his shoulder.

“Kidnap,” he echoes with a dark chuckle, “is such a barbaric term.” His hand finds the doorknob and turns it. “Call it a recovery.”

“But we had a deal. And I—I kissed you.”

“I won’t take that addictive little snarl of disgust in your voice personally,” he murmurs. “But the fact is you…kissed…me,” he repeats slower. “And yes, it was very, very nice. But that wasn’t the deal.”

I flail my arms. “We agreed to a kiss.”

“No, Zapretnaya,” he corrects, soft and sharp like he’s scolding a pet. “We agreed that I get a kiss…”

His eyes drop.

First to my mouth.

Down my neck.

Lower.

Lower.

Lingering.

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

“Where and when I want.”

Butterflies kick up in my gut, flutter around my chest. Not from fear.

But from that slow, cruel realization that some broken, depraved part of me wants to see how far he’ll push me.

How far I’ll let him.

Heat blasts against my ear as he leans in, his breath licking down the side of my neck. “So unless you’re ready to lie back down…and spread those tantalizing thighs for me?—”

Before I can react—before I can object or curse his brute of a name—he’s already pulling back.

“I suggest you settle in. Because you’re staying.”

A pause.

One heartbeat.

Two.

The air rips from my lungs like the room’s been vacuum-sealed. No windows. No light.

I can’t stay here.

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