Page 18 of Dark Promise

“By stopping those men,” he says coldly, his tone like frost biting into my skin. “Men who would have done far worse if I hadn’t intervened. You may hate me, Sabina, but hate isn’t enough to keep you safe.”

“Safe,” I echo, the word bitter on my tongue because isn’t that exactly what I claimed I wanted? To be safe? God, was it only two days ago that I thought marriage to Roberto would accomplish that? I was delusional.

And I am definitely not safe right now.

His hand moves suddenly, catching my chin and tilting my face toward him. His touch is firm but not rough, and the jolt of heat that surges through me is as unwelcome as it is undeniable. His eyes lock onto mine, cold and unyielding, holding me captive.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says, his voice low and lethal. “But you will listen. Those men wouldn’t have stopped until they had you bleeding and begging for mercy. I stopped them because I don’t share what’s mine.”

My breath catches, my pulse racing in equal parts fury and something darker, something I don’t want to name.

“I’m not yours,” I bite out, but the words feel weak, hollow, even to my own ears.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my jaw in a way that’s far too intimate. “But I think we both know better.”

I jerk away from him and lunge for my bag, the small weight of my Ruger LCP II like an anchor in my hand. I raise it, the compact pistol steady despite the fury trembling through me. I level it at his chest.

“Unlock the door,” I say, my voice steady, though my pulse races. “Let me out.”

Nikolai’s eyes meet mine, the corners of his mouth curving as if to mock my resolve.

“And if I don’t?”

I grip the gun tighter. “Then I’ll shoot you.” The words make me sick. And afraid. Because I don’t know if they’re true. I don’t know if I can pull the trigger, the way I did once before…

“Do it,” he challenges, his tone a quiet dare.

Then, before I even register the movement, the gun is gone. His hand moves like a viper, swift and deadly, snatching the weapon from my grasp as if I’d handed it to him myself.

The world tilts as he surges forward, pinning me, pressing me back against the seat, the Ruger now inhishand as he sets it down deliberately on the seat opposite. His expression is calm, controlled, but his eyes burn with something fierce and wild.

“Cute,” he murmurs, his voice laced with mockery.

I thrash beneath him, but his grip is unyielding. His body presses against mine, his weight solid and immovable, and my breath catches when I feel the hard ridge of his cock against my stomach. Heat surges through me, unwanted and infuriating, twisting low in my belly like a betrayal. His scent surrounds me—amber, smoke, and something uniquely him—igniting something primal, something dangerous, that I can’t control.

This is what I’ve dreamed of in secret: a man who could overpower me, who could strip away my defenses, leave me bare and vulnerable, not with cruelty but with unrelenting dominance. My fantasies are shadows I’ve never dared to step into, desires I’ve tried to deny. But here he is—solid, real, dangerous—and for a fleeting, horrifying second, I don’t want him to move.

I imagine this hard mouth on mine—demanding, unrelenting, taking everything I’d give and more. He wouldbruise my lips, claim me as though he had every right to. I see his big hands trapping my wrists, his fingers curling around them with just enough pressure to remind me I’m not in control, that I’d given it up willingly. His honed body would pin me down just as he is now, the weight of him both a cage and a sanctuary.

And suddenly, the man in my darkest fantasies has a face. Nikolai’s face.

“Behave yourself,” he growls.

I glare at him, my breath coming fast and shallow, the words spilling from my lips before I can stop them. “Fuck you.”

His gaze darkens. “Not tonight. But soon.”

I turn my head and glare at the window as the miles pass. The city is long behind us, not even a glow of light in the distance. We’ve been driving for hours when the divider window suddenly lowers.

“Mr. Ivanov,” Piotr says, his voice tight. “There’s a car on us.”

Nikolai straightens and settles back in the seat. “How long?”

“About twenty minutes. Black SUV. They’re keeping their distance but not trying to hide.”

“Chicago,” Nikolai says.

“Fuck,” Piotr replies.

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