Page 24 of Cruel Russian King
Once there I began to prepare milkshakes. While Ruslan was distracted, I tipped the powder into his, then crumbled Oreos on top to hide the taste, before dumping the rest of cookies on a plate.
When I offered him the glass, he eyed me suspiciously. So I pretended to sip his, and raised my brows. He grunted, took it, and I smiled. Then I grabbed my drink and the plate and headed to the library. I grabbed a book from the shelf, curled into a chair, and waited.
Twenty minutes later he was rubbing his eyes, and rolling his shoulders like he couldn’t get comfortable. By the forty minute mark, he was stumbling over his own feet as I held the glasses and plate and made my way to the kitchen. In the kitchen, he splashed water on his face, swaying like he was drunk.
I hid my smile and slipped upstairs and into the bedroom for a hat and sunglasses. By the time I walked past him, Ruslan was slumped against the railing, trying to haul himself upright.
I hustled past him to the garage.
In the garage, I chose the Porsche, specifically because I knew it would piss Artyom off. Anything that defied him brought me smug satisfaction. It wasn’t as armed as the SUV, but that was fine. I was sure there were trackers, so he’d find me eventually. For now, I just needed to be away from the estate.
At the gate, I told the guards I had a lunch date with Artyom. Surprisingly, no one questioned me.
As I drove toward the city, I kept checking my mirrors to make sure I wasn't being followed.
Now, here I was. Standing in front of a painting I could afford but at the moment didn't have access to any funds.
Maybe I could convince Artyom to buy it for me. He still had my purse, all my money, all my cards. Or maybe I’d just ask the gallery to hold it until I figured out how to get the money.
Just as I was about to turn around and look for the owner of the gallery, strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against a solid chest. My body went rigid, panic sparking, and I tried to twist free, only for his hold to tighten, his breath brushing hot against my ear.
“Hey, printsessa.”
Artyom.
The warmth of him pressed into me, and the low rumble of his voice massaging my back switched off the valve that made my lungs malfunction.
“Hi…” The word slipped out, breathless.
“Fancy meeting you here…” His tone was calm, as his thumbs traced slow circles at my waist, the small motion lightinga fire in the pit of my stomach. I bit down hard on the moan threatening to escape.
Was this some kind of game? Why was he being so kind when I knew he was nothing more than a cruel, insensitive asshole? Was it because the room was crowded, and he wanted to play the part? Were his men here too?
“See anything you like?” he asked.
“You do realize we’re in an art gallery, right?” I snapped, a bit louder and harsher than I planned.
I didn't like feeling this way in his arms. Not after what he did to me.
“Mrs. Rykov,” he murmured, his mouth far too close to my ear, “are you giving your husband an attitude in public? Because, I’ll tell you now, that is frowned upon.”
His grip tightened, and a tiny gasp broke through the walls of my throat. Despite myself, the more pressure he applied the more turned on I became. My face burned at the realization.
Remember, Ninel. Anger pushes the feelings down. Tap into it. This is Artyom Rykov. He's cold and manipulative. Don't let him get the upper hand.
“I’m not giving you an attitude. Are we not in an art gallery, Mr. Rykov? Do you not know how much I love art?” I shot back.
I tried to turn and face him, but he kept me in place.
“That very small detail about you,” he said, almost smug, “makes you predictable, printsessa.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I can go for lunch or a shopping spree, considering I don’t have money for either. I thought Bratva husbands took care of their wives?”
“They do. And Bratva wives are expected to takeverygood care of their husbands in return.”
My head snapped up to his and I saw a brief softness on his face. The moment was broken by a vibration in Artyom’s pocket. His face hardened as he lifted one hand to tap his earpiece. There was a steel edge in his voice as he spoke softly.
“Speak.”
