Page 48 of Beautifully Deranged

“I know you won’t.” I tap a finger against his chest. “Because, despite everything, you don’t actually want to piss me off.”

“I don’t want to piss you off,” he agrees, his lips curling. “I want to ruin you.”

Something inside me stutters, but I refuse to let it show. “Get in line.”

He groans, tilting his head back. “I should have tied you to my bed when I had the chance.”

“Who says you ever had the chance?”

There’s nothing playful in his expression anymore. Just hunger. Pure, unfiltered obsession.

“Because you still wear my marks,” he murmurs.

***

That fucker actually did it.

I’m twisted in an uncomfortable angle in the car, my wrist locked to his by cold, unrelenting steel. The bastard dragged me home, stripped me bare like I was nothing but his personal doll, and redressed me himself. He even styled my hair, smoothing his fingers through the strands. And now, here I am. Handcuffed. To him. Outside the goddamn Metropolitan Museum of Art. My eyes widen to the size of saucers when I realize where we are.

“No.” I hiss.

“Yes.”

I dig my heels into the ground as he tries to lead me forward. “You booked out the entire museum?”

“I did.” His grip tightens around mine, the handcuffs clinking with the movement. “Only the best for you.”

“You’re insane.” I struggle against him, trying to yank my wrist free even though it’s pointless. “We are not walking in there like this.”

“And how do you plan to stop me? Fight me? In public? In front of all these people?” His smirk widens, teeth flashing. “Do it, then. Let them see exactly how much control I have over you.”

“Take them off.”

Mikhail clicks his tongue and slides a hand over my stomach, yanking me flush against him. “I like us just the way we are. You, trapped against me; everyone watching, knowing exactly who you belong to.”

“I promise I won’t pull anything. Just take them off.”

“A promise? From you?” His lips brush my temple. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but I trust your promises as much as I trust a snake not to bite.”

I twist against him, scowling. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of lies,” he hums. “But that’s alright. Lie all you want. Just don’t expect me to believe you.”

Before I can come up with another protest, a well-dressed museum curator greets us. His expression is polite, respectful, until his gaze drops to the handcuffs. His throat bobs, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Everything is set?”

“Yes, Mr. Volkov,” the man answers smoothly. “You have complete privacy. Take your time.”

Mikhail gestures toward the doors. “After you.”

“After you, considering you’ve got me shackled like a fucking prisoner.”

I let him lead me inside, and the moment we step through the grand entrance, I feel the weight of it all settle over me. The silence, the history, the art—all of it belongs to me tonight.

Or rather, it belongs to us.

And that’s when it hits me.

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