Page 22 of Trapping His Darling

She nodded. “Yes, but more so the house staff. It all has to be perfect, but they don’t want us in their space. You know how the Bratva are.”

My brows lifted. “Bratva?”

“It’s hard to get servers to work their events.”

I thought about Lavania’s reluctance to come, and her warnings. Maybe I would end up trafficked after all.

I followed Emily, as she vented about various challenges that made her job more difficult. Politely nodding, I scanned the mansion and kept my eyes on every exit I could see, silently praying that my section had one.

???

Hours passed,and the party was in full swing. I grabbed a tray of drinks, whispering silent prayers for balance and composure. As I circulated through the crowd, mostly trying to press through throngs of old, leering men, I smiled politely, and ignored any ‘accidental’ groping. Though I smiled and graciously, if not demurely, accepted the many apologies, I covertly assessed potential opportunities to score myself a temporary Sugar Daddy. I didn’t expect to add to my collection so soon, but these handsy men were my type, so to speak.

My sixth sense tingled, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on edge, as if someone was watching me once again. The unsettling feeling rattled me, causing me to accidentally bump into a nearby patron. Startled, the person shoved me away, and I tumbled to the floor, landing on my ass and spilling champagne all over myself.

I was soaked, and frustration and humiliation gnawed at me. I glared at the asshole, and memorized his features. At least I now knew who my next victim would be.

Climbing onto my hands and knees, I scrambled around to gather all the glass shards I could, to dump onto the tray. I didn’t even care that my hands were being sliced open, and blood was spilling in red rivulets. My anxiety and irritation was making me careless, but it was something to worry about at a later time. I hated feeling vulnerable and on display. People watched, but none moved to help. I didn’t like the attention.

“Stop,” came a softly spoken command from above me.

I didn’t even bother to look up. “I’m okay. I’m almost done.” I absently waved a bloody hand to indicate the floor. “See?” I then reached for more glass.

“I said stop.” A gentleman with a faint, yet fresh, scent of the outdoors crouched before me. He clasped my injured hands with his own, halting my fingers from lifting a larger shard.

I looked up into shocking blue eyes and drowned.

“Do not ever again make me repeat myself,” he warned quietly in flawless English. “Do you understand?”

I nodded, still enthralled. “Sorry,” I mumbled even as my pussy pulsed with interest. “I am usually much more obedient,” I replied.

He smirked at that, then looked over his shoulder. He growled at someone behind him in Russian. Suddenly, men roughly grabbed the patron who had shoved me and took him away.

I had a gut feeling we would never see that man alive again. I was okay with that.

“I’m so sorry for spilling the drinks everywhere,” I offered, remembering that these were dangerous men. “I know I should be more careful.”

“It wasn’t your fault,milyy,” the man reassured me, then scooped me up in his powerful arms and stood up. So weird.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to look flustered as the crowd parted like the red sea to let us through. He didn’t appear to struggle with my weight as we went. I was not a small woman. I was full-figured, with curves for days.

“To my room,” he replied.

I remained silent, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the moment. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was the protagonist of a movie, swept off my feet by a mysterious stranger.

His men moved around us, opening doors and clearing the path. We moved upstairs, and the enigmatic man carrying me wasn’t even winded. We went down an opulent hallway, and the last door was opened for us.

Upon entering a dim room, he set me on the bed, and a sudden jolt of pain brought my attention to a piece of glass embedded in my palm. “Oh no, I’ll mess up your sheets,” I fretted, attempting to rise.

“I would love for you to make a mess on my sheets,” he replied with a straight face.

Flustered, I stammered, “t-that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want to get them all bloody.”

“I wouldn’t mind your blood staining my sheets.”

A wave of heat surged through me at the thought, and my face flushed. My mom once told me the old tradition of hanging stained sheets on a laundry line the day after the wedding, to show the neighborhood that the bride went to the marriage bed a virgin.

Our gazes remained locked, and I licked my suddenly dry lips, watching his eyes darken as they followed the path of my tongue.

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