Page 69 of Sinful Games

A faint click sliced through the tension. My heart pounded as I recognized the sound—a gun being cocked.

"I’ll count to three," Alexsei’s voice dripped through the door, chillingly calm. "If you don’t open up by then, my bullet will. I’d really hate to hurt my bride on the eve of our wedding night."

I stayed silent, my whole body trembling uncontrollably.

"One," he said, the gun tapping ominously against the door.

My thoughts raced.

He wouldn’t really shoot me… would he?

“Two.”

I knew he wouldn’t—after all, he had me right where he wanted. But the creeping doubt gnawed at my sanity, making it hard to breathe. I braced myself, trying to steel against the worst.

"Thre—"

Panic exploded within me, and I yanked open the door.

There he stood, his gun now casually hanging at his side, a twisted smirk on his lips. His eyes sparkled with cruel amusement as he watched me.

My breath caught, torn between furious defiance and a weird, unsettling relief.

“Oh, my sweet Caia,” he drawled with twisted amusement. “You really shouldn’t have made it so easy for me to hunt you down.”

“A vodka and a tea for the lady.”

I snatched the cup from the waiter’s tray and took a sip of the spicy peppermint tea, savoring its bite as it helped calm my frayed nerves.

“Spasibo,” I muttered, barely looking at him as I finished the tea.

After that debacle in the restroom, Alexsei had given me a choice: join him for tea or head back to my place where he might just chain me to the living room table. And of course, he’d made it clear that any attempt to escape would prompt a call to my father, who would unleash an army of spies to track me down.

“Didn’t expect you to be such a fast runner,” Alexsei said with a sneer.

I rolled my eyes. “Stop making assumptions about me.”

“Why? Is reality more entertaining than my imagination?”

My eyes narrowed. “Stop fantasizing about me.”

He scoffed. “Who says I am?”

“Your face does,” I shot back.

He took a swig of vodka before setting the glass down. “Stop telling me what to do.”

I studied him as he took stock of me. With his dark blue eyes, disheveled brown hair, full lips, and cheeks flushed from the cold and alcohol, he looked like he’d wandered off a Russian king-themed fashion shoot.

His finger drummed absently on the table as he licked his lips, drawing my gaze before meeting his eyes. He arched an eyebrow.

“Like what you see?”

I took another sip of my tea, unimpressed. “Nyet.”

“Too bad, ‘cause you’re stuck with this gorgeous face for the rest of your life.”

My grip on the cup tightened, frustration and resentment bubbling up.

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