Page 100 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

Another.

Why can’t I fucking scream?

Another button.

Cool air rushes over my skin, but I feel it in a far away kind of way. Like when you spend too long in the snow and your toes go numb. I know Roger is touching me, but I can’t feel it.

“Fucking perfect,” he growls, his eyes locked on my breasts. “You wear this lacy little number for me, didja?”

He leans close and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. That, weirdly, is what breaks my spell. The sight of that foul, disgusting tongue flickering out. It’s so corporeal, so real and nauseating, that my body is moving before I can even process what my intentions are.

The heel of my hand smashes up into his nose.

He reels backwards. With enough room now to kick, I swing my foot up into his crotch. Something soft gives way.

I don’t stop to find out what.

I just tear past him and run.

My legs feel like rubber. Every step is shaky, and I can already hear Roger rallying behind me. “You fucking bitch!” he roars. His scream echoes around the empty office building.

I can see the elevator straight ahead, but there isn’t time. He’ll catch up to me before the doors even open. But the stairs don’t feel like an option, either. My ankle is still sore from my last tumble down the stairs. I can barely support my own weight.

The office is empty, I can’t escape, and Roger is coming after me.

His footsteps are thundering down the hallway. I dive for the next door I pass. I yank it open and find a storage closet. There are shelves of paper and pens and computer cords and chargers. Stacks of calculators and rulers. Extra chairs.

I duck inside and catch a glimpse of Roger through the crack just as the door closes. I pull the handle shut and then grab the chair next to me. I slide the metal leg through the curved door handle and twist, locking it into place just as Roger shakes the handle on the other side.

“Come out, you cunt!” he roars, pounding on the door. “You can’t hide forever.”

I hold the chair firmly in place, praying he’s wrong.

Because hiding is the only option I have left.

23

NIKOLAI

“When is the wedding?” Florian asks, stretching his measuring tape down the outside of my leg. He’s an older man with a balding head and the latest in a never-ending rotation of immaculate suits. He’s been my tailor for years. The first thousand dollars I ever made on my own went right into his pocket in exchange for a custom suit of my own.

“Soon,” I grunt.

Xena and Giorgos are both eager to make the arrangements official. I told them this morning that they could proceed. I’m not planning a fucking wedding, but I’ll show up when I need to.

Still, arranged wedding or not, I’m not showing up in an off-the-rack suit.

“I planned to have three more months with this piece,” he sighs.

“I’ll make sure you’re compensated if it’s a rush job. I always do.”

He nods politely. “Yes, Mr. Zhukova.”

That’s my favorite thing about Florian. No bullshit and very little chit-chat. If he knows what I do for a living, he doesn’t make it obvious. He just does his job and doesn’t ask questions. Something I wish more people were capable of.

People like Belle in particular.

My body clenches like I’m guarding myself against even the thought of her. And in some ways, I do need to guard myself. =

---