Page 120 of Ruthless Reign

When I hear footsteps coming down the hallway, everything inside me tightens in fear. The door opens, and there's Anatoly in a tuxedo. His twisted game of dress-up for this forced wedding sends chills down my spine.

His eyes rove over my body, not in a way that suggests he finds me desirable but rather like I’m dog shit stuck to his shoe. “Look at you, wearing white like a virgin.” He tilts his head, his lips curled in disdain. “What a fucking lie that is. I chose you because I thought you were pure, one of the few bitches who actually kept their legs shut until marriage. Turns out you’re nothing more than a whore.”

I flinch, and the tiny hairs on my neck stand on end. There's something unhinged about him. Violence simmers right below the surface.

He stalks towards me, and I instinctively retreat until my back hits the wall. I feel like trapped prey as he closes in.

“Now, I'll show you how I treat whores.” His words are a venomous hiss.

“I’ve never been anyone’s whore.” My voice trembles. “I craved Roman’s touch because he actually made me feel good. He cared about me and my pleasure. That’s more than I can say for you.”

Anatoly’s expression morphs into something dark and menacing before he delivers a harsh slap across my face.

I cry out, my eyes watering, as I shove against his chest, but he catches my wrists, pinning them high against the wall. My body revolts as his fingers draw a calculated path down my neck, tracing the tops of my breasts spilling over the sweetheart neckline.

“You make me sick,” I yell. “Get off me.”

“I’ll do whatever I want with you.” He grabs my jaw roughly, lowering his mouth onto mine.

His kiss is vile, and a wave of nausea rolls through me. He forces his tongue in my mouth, plunging between my lips repeatedly—a glimpse of what I fear is coming next. I’m desperate to get him off of me, but he won't budge.

Tears catch at the back of my throat and as much as I don’t want him to see my vulnerability, I’m powerless to stop them. He’s laid me bare and made me face how utterly defenseless I am against him.

“You brought this on yourself. You’re the one to blame for Roman’s death. For everything.”

I know his words aren’t true, but a sickening pang of guilt stabs through me anyhow. A part of me will always feel responsible for Roman’s death.

Anatoly hurls me onto the mattress, climbs on top of me, and wraps his hands around my neck. I gasp for air and attempt to fight him off, but my head spins and white spots dance before my eyes. His face contorts into a monstrous expression as he tightens his grip.

Just when I think I’m going to black out, he releases his hold. I cough, and my lungs sear with each desperate breath.

The relief is temporary because he forces my dress up and settles between my legs. A fresh wave of fear ripples through me when I realize his pants are already down by his ankles.

Swallowing my pride, I beg, “Please, don't do this. Please. This is no?—”

His hand connects with my cheek, hot and hard, before I even know what's happening. My head wrenches to the side in pain. Clawing at his face with one hand, I reach down with the other to wrap around the nail file. It’s now or never.

I grip the file like a makeshift dagger as I jerk my hand back. In a swift motion, I drive the pointed end of the file into Anatoly’s neck with all the force I can muster.

He roars and falls back, his eyes wild and unfocused, like those of an animal that's just been shot. Seizing the moment, I kick hard to force him off me. He stumbles backward onto the floor, and I twist free from his grasp.

Heart pounding, I scramble to my feet and bolt through the unlocked door. My breath comes in ragged pants as I sprint down the hallway. Driven by desperation, I charge toward the first floor, silently praying I don't encounter a guard around the next corner.

At the bottom of the stairs, I pause briefly, considering which way to go. From the window of our room, the back of the property looked relatively quiet and deserted.

I suck in a deep breath and race towards what I hope is the rear of the house. It might be reckless, considering my slim odds of escape, but the alternative is surrendering to Anatoly, which I will never do willingly.

As I slam the back door open, a racket from above tells me that Anatoly is following. I hurt him, but not enough to keep him down.

Gasping for air, I scan my surroundings—no guards yet, but I'm far from safe. To my left, the land stretches into open shrubland, mercilessly exposed. To my right, the ground slopes steeply upward towards the clifftop. The climb is dangerous, especially in these ridiculous heels, but it’s my best chance of slipping out of sight. If I get high enough, I can hopefully find a place to hide.

As I race upwards, Anatoly’s enraged cries fill the air. He’s losing his mind, calling his guards to the back of the property.

My heart pounds like a drum, but I shove Anatoly's shouts from my mind and push forward. Rushing up the slope, I stumble repeatedly, each fall harder than the last. After the third crash to the ground, I yank off my heels and toss them aside. Barefoot isn't much better; the jagged rocks slice into my feet, but I clench my teeth and endure the pain because there's no other way.

It feels like hours—realistically, it has only been a few minutes—when I risk a quick glance behind me. The sight freezes my blood.

Anatoly is closing in on me. Right behind him, at the foot of the incline, is a group of his guards.

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