Page 60 of Monstrous Urges

Her violet eyes narrow, her silver brows and almost translucent forehead furrowing.

“If you were able to raise the dead, Mr. Krylov,” she says venomously, “then perhaps I could be persuaded to stomach sitting across the Table from you.”

I smile. “That’s all I needed to hear. Have a good flight back to Moscow, Yelizaveta.”

She gives me a long, curious look before she turns again and marches back to her plane.

My lips curl darkly at the corners. A throb of malice flickers in my heart.

Change of plans, Annika…

12

TAYLOR

Where the fuck am I.

The question tears through my head as my eyes flutter open, wrenching me upright as my breath chokes in my throat. My pulse hammers in my ears as I blink, my eyes darting around my surroundings. My head throbs, my mouth and throat are bone dry.

I force another breath, wincing as I try to swallow. As the oxygen fills my lungs, my vision clears a little.

No, but seriously… Where the fuck am I?

I’m in a bed of some kind, which is chilling in and of itself. My brain jangles as I quickly glance down at myself. But I’m still dressed, in the de la Renta I put on yesterday, before?—

It all hits me at once, making me physically flinch as I scramble back on the bed, into the headboard.

Before I went to dinner.

With him.

NapoleonInExile is fucking Drazen. That’s who I played depraved games with. Who I ran from in the dark.

Who made me come with his fucking knife.

The man that even dangerous, scary men themselves fear is the man I asked to chase me, and catch me, and fuck me, “whether I say no or not.”

I mean, Jesus…

The scene from dinner flashes through my head, arresting my pulse as I clench the duvet beneath me, holding on for dear life. The insanely personal questions. His eyes eviscerating me. The sudden change of subject. The way my head swam just before he dropped my lacerated panties onto the table, turning my world upside down.

After that, the memories fade to nothing.

And now here I am.

…Wherever here may be.

I swallow painfully again, glancing around the opulent bedroom. The walls are sand-colored stone covered with a light wash, giving it a very Mediterranean feel. Huge windows take up almost an entire wall, though right now they’re covered by sweeping white curtains. Even still, I can see the white glow of sunlight outside through them.

Gorgeous leafy flowering plants in terra-cotta pots fill one corner of the room. Earthen-colored tiles cover the floor, with a huge almost Moroccan-looking teal and burnt orange Persian rug laid over them. The bed is hewn from weathered wood and black iron, with white gauze curtains hanging from the four tall corner posts.

Across the room, a curved doorframe, again, very Mediterranean or Moroccan in feel, leads to what appears to be a huge, open bathroom, done in white tiles. Another similar door reveals what looks like a large changing room, or massive walk-in closet.

The third door—heavy wood with bands of iron—is closed.

Swallowing again, I gingerly swing my legs off the bed. My bare feet hit the floor, and I sway a little as I stand, my head still swimming.

That motherfucker drugged me, and I’m still feeling the effects.

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