Page 49 of Beautifully Deranged

Mikhail Volkov, unhinged and possessive as he is, just gifted me the one thing I love most in the world. This man sure knows how to grovel. Too bad I’m not the forgiving type.

The museum is silent except for the click of my heels against the marble floor and the occasional clink of the handcuffs when I forget that I’m shackled to a madman. He’s walking at a leisurely pace, completely at ease. I stop in front of a Renaissance painting, crossing my arms the best I can with my wrist still locked to his. “This is ridiculous.”

“You wound me, sweetheart. I give you the Met, and you call me ridiculous.”

“You fucking handcuffed me.”

“You left me no choice.”

“Or you could have chosen to leave me alone.”

“If I had left you alone, you’d still be hiding from me, convincing yourself that you can resist me.”

“Resist what, exactly? Your charming ability to take no as an invitation?” I know I’m a hypocrite, because that was me at some point. But nothing stops me from talking back.

“You think this is madness? This is nothing.”

“So what, you’ll lock me in a tower next?”

“Tempting.”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

I focus back on the painting. “You know, I’d actually appreciate this if you weren’t being so insufferable.”

“You do appreciate it. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Keep talking like that, and I might start charging you to breathe the same air as me.”

Mikhail’s laugh is low, sinful. “You’d put a price on my suffering?”

“You are a millionaire,” I deadpan. “Might as well squeeze some benefits out of this whole hostage situation.”

“I’d fund your entire existence with a smile on my face.”

“You’re lucky I like art…”

“I’m lucky you like me.”

“Debatable.”

Mikhail only smirks, utterly unbothered as he tugs metoward the next exhibit. “Let’s continue our tour, shall we?”

?Chapter Twenty Three?

Mikhail

The call comes at three in the morning.

Roman’s voice is sharp, edged with barely contained rage. “We have a problem.”

I’m already out of bed, throwing on a white button-up and holstering my gun at my side. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

When I walk into the warehouse, Roman, Sergei, Anton, and a few others are gathered around the long steel table, cigarette smoke curling through the dimly lit room. The scent of gunpowder lingers from whatever poor bastard met his end here earlier tonight.

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