Page 37 of The Contract

He doesn’t blink. Just turns and makes his way to the door.

“You can’t keep me here,” I fire back.

He glances over his shoulder and casually taps a shiny padlock. “Don’t make me use this.”

That shuts me up.

Immediately.

Because every instinct in me says this man is not bluffing.

He straightens his tie. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

And then—he’s gone.

Just like that.

Door shut.

And me?

I’m left pacing this stupid, gilded holding suite, wondering exactly when the floor dropped out from beneath my life.

My gaze drifts around the room—brick walls, million-thread-count sheets, and enough leftover sexual tension to slice, box up, and stash away for when the universe isn’t actively plotting my downfall.

Then, just to test fate, I cross the room and twist the knob of the door Dante disappeared through.

Color me shocked when the damn thing actually opens.

Voices drift from down the corridor.

One louder than the rest—Dante’s, sharp and cold.

“Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

Charming.

My gaze lands on the guard—just one—who promptly sinks into his chair and yawns the moment Dante’s out of sight.

Fine. Escape’s clearly not happening right this second.

Might as well wash off the lingering frustration from being dominated by two arrogant assholes.

I pivot toward the bathroom, storm inside, and crank the water to extra-scalding. Steam immediately swallows the room.

For the first time since the wedding, I force myself to look in the mirror.

It’s not the bruises that catch my attention. They’re actually less horrific than I expected.

No, it’s everything else that hits me as I strip down to the bare basics.

The ripped seam.

The torn strap.

The very-much-missing panties.

Which in all fairness, is not the Russian’s fault.

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