Page 94 of Little Blue

The Russian Ballet is like watching something from another world. It’s breathtaking and so magically beautiful.

I could have watched the dancers move, their beauty otherworldly, forever. But as soon as it was over, and we’re back in the SUV, on the road that yawns into a dark night, my exhaustion settles in.

I want nothing more than a hot shower, and bed. I want to be tucked in close to Ilya’s broad chest, with Lucy purring nearby.

I want to be home.

Home.

When did Ilya’s house become home? When did the thought of his arms wrapped around me become the thing my heart craves?

Home.

My captor, the man I vowed I would escape from, never stop running from, has become my home.

With the thought comes a rush of hot emotion swelling inside me. I can’t pull the threads of my desires apart. Everything is twisted and wound into the chaos of my complex feelings for him. For Ilya.

And yet, deep in the darkest parts of me, I want to hold true to my promise to him. I want to run from him. I want, deeply, to make him chase me like he vowed he would.

I want to push him beyond his control, to the moment he breaks.

I want him to catch me and claim me.

Yes, I’m most assuredly depraved.

But as the gated entrance to his property appears, and the SUV rolls through, my desire to run—to make him chase, to make him hunt, only intensifies.

Heart slamming in my chest, the SUV carries us up a long, snow-covered driveway. Between the trees, I catch sight of the massive house. Warm light spills from the windows, and lantern-like exterior lights that decorate the manor glow brightly against dark stone.

We roll to a stop outside the front door, and I glance down at the heels I wear. At least they are boot-like in fashion, so my toes won’t freeze and fall off.

I’m crazy for this.

Maleficent trots to a stop next to the SUV, her shadowy eyes and dark, wolflike fur reflecting off the amber lights from the house.

My heart lurches.

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

I don’t care. I’m doing it.

“I’ll come around for you,” Ilya tells me, his hand on the door handle.

I murmur a non-reply. If I speak, he’ll know something is wrong. Something is off.

He’ll know to be on guard.

I want to take him by surprise.

I get my chance when a man I don’t recognize jogs up to the car, claiming Ilya’s attention. In the passenger seat, Misha says, “Wait here.” And then he’s out and rounding the car. The driver joins, leaving the car running with me inside.

How easy it would be to slip into the driver’s seat and flee.

I don’t want to flee. Not really.

I watch Ilya for a moment, wondering if now is not the time to push him. But he doesn’t look too worried by whatever the man is saying. He looks more annoyed than anything, which might work in my favor. I want him frazzled just enough that he takes me and claims me the way he’s always promised he would.

Who would have thought I housed a freak inside?

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