Page 15 of Crown of Hate

A soft knock yanks me from my reverie, and I crane my neck towards the door. The handle twists with agonizing slowness, and I swear my heart tries to jump straight out of my chest. I sit up.

Louisa enters the room with a smile. Behind her, two other women push in a mobile garment rack. The sight makes me want to scream.

Wedding gowns. Freaking wedding gowns everywhere.

The first dress assaults my eyeballs, its diamonds catching the overhead light like some sort of demonic disco ball. Don’t get me wrong, they’re all jaw-dropping gorgeous, but all I feel is panic. “What the hell are those?”

“Mr. Zirkhov had all of these picked out especially for you,” Louisa chirps. “He wants you to select the one you’d like to wear tonight.”

My lungs forget how to function. The bastard really wasn’t bluffing when he said we were getting married tonight. Well, I wasn’t bluffing either when I said there was no chance in hell.

“Go and tell Mr. Zirkhov I’m not wearing any of these. If he likes them so much then he can wear one himself.”

Louisa and the two other ladies exchange panicked glances. When Louisa looks at me again, her eyes are wide with fear. “Mr. Zhirkov won’t take no for an answer.”

I cock a brow, a humorless smirk twisting my lips. “Won’t he? I guess I’ll just have to tell him myself.”

Jumping up, I start for the door, ready to confront the bastard again, and hating that some masochistic part of me hopes—no, craves—another physical confrontation with him. But I barely make it to the doorframe when I slam into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne. Ice-blue eyes bore into mine, and I feel my insides liquify.

Mikhail’s gaze dances with something I can’t quite wrap my head around. Mischief? Lust? Murderous intent? Maybe all three? “You don’t need to repeat yourself. I heard you the first time.”

I take a step back, but I’ll be damned if I cower before him. “Good thing you’re here, you manipulative prick.” I snap, jerking my chin towards the rack of dreaded dresses. “I’m not wearing any of those.”

He scoffs, as if he needs to put on a show of annoyance. Really, though, I can sense his cruel enjoyment underneath it all. “Unless you want to get married in your birthday suit – which, I might add, I wouldn’t object to – I suggest you choose a dress.”

“I won’t marry you,” I hiss, injecting every ounce of loathing I can muster into those four words.

The air between us sizzles with tension so intense it feels ready to burst into flames at any moment.

“Out. Now,” he orders the maids, but his eyes remain fixed on me.

Louisa and the other girls scurry out, clicking the door shut behind them with a finality that turns my blood to ice. I wish I could’ve fled with them. But now I’m trapped. Alone with this monster. And I have no idea what he’ll do next.

“You are an interesting one,” he says, stalking toward me like a predator, ready to shred its prey to pieces. “What will it take to figure you out, to tame that delicious defiance?”

Common sense whispers for me to back away, to create a safe distance between us, but a stubborn voice at the back of my head urges me to challenge him.

To push his limits. To make him lose control and punish me again like he did before. It’s insane. Dangerous. But I can’t help myself. He wasn’t lying when he guessed that I was soaking wet. Bastard.

“I’m sure you have your ways,” I taunt. “So what’s next? Torture? Brainwashing? Or just good old-fashioned Stockholm Syndrome?”

“You’re playing with fire,malyshka,” he whispers, his voice dark and hoarse. “Behave before I lose it.”

I tilt my face to his and a daring sneer twists my lips. My pulse thrums so loudly it’s almost deafening. “What will you do if you lose it? Punish me? Go ahead, big man. I dare you.”

He stares me down, his gaze so heated I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames on the spot. “Yes, I’ll punish you. And you’ll like it so much, you’ll beg me for more.”

My throat goes Sahara-dry, but I manage to croak out, “I’ll never beg you for anything, Mikhail Zirkhov. Not even if hell freezes over.”

In a flash, his fingers are around my throat, hauling me closer. Our bodies press together, and I feel every hard plane of him, including the impressive bulge pressing hot and insistent against my thigh. “Trust me,malyshka.” He leans in so close that his breath warms my face. Our lips are leveled, and all I can think about is how badly I want to close that tiny gap. “Whether I reward you or punish you depends entirely on how good you are tonight.”

My mouth opens, but I can’t find my voice through the deafening roar of blood in my ears and the molten ache in my core. If a word manages to escape, it will be me actually begging, and I’ll be damned if I give him that satisfaction.

He’s your enemy, Alya.

He killed your papa.

Remember that, you hormone-addled idiot.

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