Page 42 of The Pakhan's Arranged Bride
“You are not going home on your own. It’s too dangerous,” he snarls, shoving my phone into his jacket pocket.
My rage is building to dangerous levels. I have never had someone treat me with such disrespect, and I want to slap him in the face for it.
“Benedikt, you have three seconds to give me my phone back and let me leave.” I march over to him and hold my hand out, palm up, waiting for my phone.
He snorts. “I’m driving you home.”
“No, go back to your stupid party and your stupid room full of egotistical assholes. You fit in perfectly. The biggest asshole of them all.”
A sneer brushes over his lips, and his eyes darken.
He takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the parking lot, towards his car.
“Let me go,” I shout, trying to pull away.
He turns, lifts me off my feet, and throws me over his shoulder.
I am mortified. I can’t believe he’s doing this. All I can hope is that we are far enough away from the party that no one is actually seeing this happen.
His hand slips over my ass, moving between my legs as he walks, holding me too tightly. My body spikes with heat. It’sanger. It’s anger,notdesire.
I groan inwardly, hating the fact that his touch is affecting me in ways I refuse to be affected right now.
Benedikt tugs his car door opens and puts me into the passenger seat. I sit sulking with my arms folded over my chest and my lips pouted.
I am never speaking to him again.
He climbs in and slams the door.
“I can’t believe you did that,” he snaps, starting the car and revving it in anger.
“What did I do?” I shout, not caring if anyone hears us at this point. We’re far from the rest of the crowd now, though, and the chances are slim. I’m struggling to control my anger, and there is something else building beneath the surface, the tension bolting through my body in waves.
“You know what you did, Ulyana.”
I shake my head, turning my face away from Benedikt, staring out of the window and trying to count down from one hundred to stop this building anger. He’s impossible to talk to. I have to stop arguing because it won’t end well.
And his stupid cologne smells so damn good it’s hyping me up as well. And the way his stupid shirt is rolled up over his stupid, perfectly toned arms, thick muscles flexing as he grips the steering wheel too tightly—it’s all too much.
I can’t deal with any of this.
Both of us fall quiet as he drives home.
I can feel the heat emanating off him. His entire aura is one of frustration and rage.
When I glance at him, his jaw is set so firmly that the muscles are feathering across his face.
Why the hell does he have to be so damn good looking?
I hate being attracted to him while I am trying so hard to hate him.
He drives up the long driveway leading to our home and pulls the car to a stop. Before the engine turns off I’m already out. I slam the car door as hard as I can, knowing it’s immature and not caring, and storming towards the house, desperate to get away from him before I try to claw his eyes out.
Behind me, I hear his door slam, too, and his heavy footsteps following me.
I shove the front door open and practically run upstairs to the bedroom. I want to grab my comfortable clothes and sleep in the guest room tonight. I refuse to sleep anywhere near him.
He stands in the doorway, watching me, his eyes like daggers.
