Page 28 of Crown of Hate

Mikhail, as handsome and charming as he may be, has to be the most infuriating person in the universe. I’m pissed as hell about our wedding night—pissed at how he dumped me after making me come on his tongue. For a man a decade older, he sure knows how to push all my buttons—in the most maddening ways.

My cheeks burn as I force myself not to recall that night; the way his wicked tongue and nimble fingers had fucked me, and how that drew out an earth-shattering orgasm.

Damn him for reducing me to a quivering, wanton mess.

After fleeing his room that night, I’d tried to masturbate to the thought of him. I needed to release the tension between my legs, but nothing worked. I’ve reached a point where only Mikhail can soothe the ache between my thighs, and I hate myself for it.

How did I lose myself so much that I’m getting wet for the man who murdered my papa? I’ll have to take my revenge on that bastard. It’s the only way I can face Papa again when I die.

With the crisp morning light filtering through the curtains, I slide out of bed and dress quickly, slipping out of Mikhail’s shirt and into a dress Louisa had picked out for me.

As I descend the stairs, my thoughts are a whirl of anticipation and apprehension. I find Mikhail waiting below, his very presence commanding and magnetic. He looks effortlessly handsome, his chiseled features and intense gaze locking onto mine as I approach.

For a moment, I'm struck by the sheer force of his aura. It’s powerful, almost suffocating—even Papa didn’t possess such a dominant, domineering presence as Pakhan.

“Ready to go?” he asks, his voice low and resonant.

I nod, pushing aside the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “Yeah.”

We step out into the morning sunlight, and Mikhail, like a perfect gentleman, opens the passenger door of one of the waiting cars for me. I get inside, trying to ignore the way my heart pounds as he rounds the car and drops into the driver’s seat.

“That dress looks gorgeous on you,” he practically purrs, his eyes drinking me in.

“Thanks,” I murmur, resisting the urge to fidget under his heated gaze.

The drive is mostly silent, save for the soothing strains of music drifting from the radio. I rest my head against the window, trying in vain to distract myself from thinking of how close his hand is to my thighs.

Taylor Swift’sCardiganstarts to play on the radio. It’s my favorite song, and even though I have the vocal talents of a strangled frog, I can’t resist belting it out shamelessly. I don’t realize how invested I am in the song until it ends and I turn to find Mikhail watching me, lips twitching with amusement.

“That was a beautiful performance.”

I wave off his compliment, heat creeping up my neck. “Don’t flatter me. You know I sound like a frog.”

He lets out a low, rich chuckle, his eyes flicking briefly from the road to meet mine. “I don’t care. I love the way my little frog sings.”

I bite back a smile, wondering if anyone else ever gets to see this playful side of Mikhail. It’s a surprisingly endearing contrast to his usual stoic, intimidating demeanor. “So you’re admitting I sound like a frog, then?”

He sucks in his bottom lip, clearly racking that sharp brain of his for a way to change the subject. The poor guy knows he would get in trouble whether he agrees or not. “What, uh, what type of clothes do you like to wear?” he finally asks, the words coming out a tad strained.

My brow shoots up to my hairline and a disbelieving chuckle tears through me. Really,that’sthe best he could come up with? “You’ll just have to wait and see,”

Mikhail clears his throat. “Well, we’ll be attending events together from now on. Make sure to get some gorgeous dresses,” he muses.

I would normally take offense at him trying to dictate my choices, but his tone is more suggestive than commanding. “How about you help me pick some out?”

His eyes widen with surprise that I’m asking. “You want me to?”

“You don’t want to?” I ask, adding a hint of challenge to my voice.

“No, I definitely want.” He winks at me, then returns his attention back on the road.

I can’t help but admire his profile—the sharp angles of his jaw and the way the sunlight plays across his features. He’s so handsome, it’s almost unfair. God must have used an entire month to mold this guy.

Suddenly, his hand slides to my thigh and squeezes gently. My breath catches in my throat and butterflies gain wings in my stomach. His touch sends a heat down my veins that simmers between my legs.

I don’t push his hand away. Instead, I cover his hand with mine, lacing our fingers together as another Taylor Swift song comes on.

Moments later, he brings the car to a stop in front of what looks like a high-end boutique. The other vehicles carrying his hulking bodyguards pull in around us like a protective ring of muscle.

---