Page 6 of Nine Months to Bear
I shiver, suddenly freezing in the vacuum he leaves behind, like he took all the warmth with him. The champagne buzz that carried me through two hours of empty smiles and emptier promises evaporates. It leaves behind nothing but the cold reality of my situation.
I just wasted half an hour with a man I’ll never speak to again, and I’m still no closer to securing investors.
Behind me, the balcony door bangs open.
I smell him before I see him—cheap whiskey and cheaper cologne, a combination that turns my stomach even before I turn and see exactly what I feared I’d see.
Frederick Carson stumbling towards me.
4
OLIVIA
He’s on me fast, before I can even think to scream. “Think your mob boyfriend scares me?” Frederick corners me against the railing. His hand clamps my wrist, fingers digging right back where they were before Stefan intervened. “You’re just a stuck-up bitch who needs to be taught?—”
I slap him. The sound cracks through the night like a gunshot. For one suspended moment, his face goes slack with shock.
Stay away, you fucking pig. Let that be a lesson to?—
Then his meaty hand flies into my throat. “You’ll regret that, whore.”
“L-let… go…!” I try to squeak. But air is in short supply. As are sources of rescue.
Inside the ballroom, surrounded by witnesses, Frederick was merely annoying.
Out here, with nothing but forty stories of empty air below us, he’s something else entirely.
Then I realize it’s not death I have to worry about. Funny enough—in a disgustingly macabre twist of fate—it’s a part of Frederick’s anatomy that I’m already professionally familiar with.
“No one makes a fool of me, you skanky little bitch.” He starts pawing at the hem of my dress with his free hand. “I’m gonna teach you what to do with your fucking mouth. Nice ‘n’ dark out here, yeah? Quiet, too. No one will hear you scream.”
I struggle, but he’s six feet of drunken rage, his hand is a muzzle on my throat, and I had to cancel my Pilates membership five months ago when money got really tight, so I’m weaker and feebler than ever.
My high heels suddenly feel like death traps. One of them catches on the balcony ledge, and I feel myself tipping backward. The city yawns below, a hundred-foot drop that makes my stomach lurch. Panic claws up my throat, then?—
“I thought I fucking warned you,mudak.”
For the second time tonight, I’m saved by a voice that sounds like tectonic plates shifting.
For the second time tonight, Frederick freezes before he does something that will leave scars both inside and out.
And for the second time tonight, Stefan Safonov reaches in, peels Frederick off me, and inflicts damage on the drunken bastard.
Only this time, it’s not Frederick’s ego or his reputation that’s getting bruised and battered.
It’s his face.
Stefan’s punch is brutal and efficient. The single strike is lightning-fast and lands flush against Frederick’s jaw with a sickening pop.
Something breaks. Blood flies. Frederick drops to the floor.
I’m gawking at him in stunned horror, but Stefan is already turning to me. With a gulp, I pivot and meet his eyes.
There’s no mistaking the danger when you look at Stefan. But there’s a big difference between knowing it’s there and seeing it in person.
Gone is the sardonic businessman from moments earlier. In his place stands something darker, something that makes the primitive part of my brain tremble.
I stagger back, trembling, adrenaline making my vision swim. My mother always said I’d be judged by the company I keep—what the hell would she make ofthis?
