Page 23 of Trapping His Darling

Just as the tension between us reached its peak, a throat cleared behind us, and the enigmatic stranger stepped away, creating a polite distance. His heated gaze still lingered on me, but he maintained a façade of neutrality.

The man at the door spoke in Russian, but my host interrupted him. “Speak in English, so your patient can understand you.”

“Yes, as you wish, sir.” An elderly man entered the room with a black satchel in his hand. “I am told she has injured her hands, and you would like me to clean her wounds and apply sutures, if required. Did she hit her head?”

“She is right here,” I replied pointedly, yet politely, with a fake smile, “and no, I didn’t. Thank you very much for askingmeaboutmyinjuries. But I’m okay and don’t need a doctor. I’ll be fine. I will go home and tend to myself.”

Faint amusement gleamed in the mystery man’s eyes, even though his expression remained unchanged. “No need to be offended. He speaks to me because he answers to me. And he will be examining your wounds.”

“But–”

“I am being patient because you do not know our ways, but if you contradict me one more time, there will be…” he paused, as if searching for the correct word, “regrettable consequences.I am not a man to naysay.”

I looked at the doctor, whose wide eyes seemed to confirm that the warning was, indeed, a real one. He shook his head ever so lightly, as if to caution me to not press the issue.

“Do you understand, Tiffany?” my host asked, ever so quietly.

My eyes flicked back to the obviously wealthy and powerful man before me. The way he said my name made me feel warm and tingly. I smiled and blushed. “Of course. My apologies.”

“Accepted, but there will be no more warnings.”

“Okay. I’m… you know my name.”

Again, there was the small tilt of his lips, an ever-quick glimpse that showed he found me humorous.

So enthralled was I with my host, and our environment, that I paid little attention to the doctor tending me. The room exuded a sense of gothic opulence, a sanctuary that radiated both power and sophistication. It fit the man before me.

I realized that my host must be high in the Bratva organization, because his veiled threats seemed unsurprising to the doctor, and my host seemingly had men to do his bidding, including removing my assaulter from the party without protest.

While the doctor went about cleaning my wounds, I studied my environment and its atmosphere of mystery and grandeur.

The color scheme was a symphony of blacks and deep charcoals, creating an ambiance that was both darkly seductiveand regal. Intricate wallpaper adorned the walls, featuring delicate patterns of swirling vines with hints of silver, and metallic accents. Tall, ebony candle holders stood in every corner, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows.

The California king-size bed I sat upon was a masterpiece of black velvet and satin, adorned with plush pillows and silken sheets. The headboard was a work of art in itself, depicting intricate carvings of ancient legends and dark romanticism. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in heavy, flowing curtains made from rich, velvety fabric that pooled dramatically on the floor.

Someone meticulously chose the art pieces to match the gothic aesthetic. Dark, vintage paintings of enigmatic figures adorned the walls, their eyes following anyone who moved around the room.

Everything was as mysterious as it was dangerous; vibrations of both hidden behind a mask of indulgence. As haunting as the powerful man who had essentially captured me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tiffany

Once the doctorexamined me and declared me free of major injuries, he provided some directions on my careto my host. At least he did it in English. The doctor then departed out the ornate double doors, leaving me alone with the unusual man.

My would-be savior went to his closet and came out with fabric in his hand. “Here, you can change into this after you shower,” he said, holding up a large t-shirt.

“I can’t work wearing that,” I protested. “It’s too casual.” I glanced at my bloody clothes. While dirty, at least the outfit was professional.

“You’re not going back.” He laid the shirt on the bed. “The bathroom is through there. Go shower.” The man then turned and left the room abruptly.

My jaw hung open from his brusque behavior. It was rare that I was surprised by men anymore, but I had to admit I was taken aback by this asshole’s assumption that I would comply without question.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

I was going to do just that. Comply. I had no choice.

I didn’t want to get on my host’s bad side. Not yet. While I wasn’t worried about being connected to my last victim, I was also not stupid enough to tempt fate. This guy was obviously high in the Bratva chain-of-command, or he wouldn’t have so many men at his beck and call. I sighed at my bad luck.

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