Page 46 of Claim

Fuck, I wish there was a better option.

CHAPTER 23

ANASTASIA

Song- Sleeptoken Rain

I tapmy fingers on the wooden table, listening to the rain pelt against the single glazed window. The sound is almost comforting, but not enough to distract me from my thoughts.

Why won’t he touch me? He basically ran out of the door earlier.

Last night, he barely said a word to me.

I got what I wanted, I guess. He took my virginity before it could be robbed from me. I shouldn’t want more, not with him. I shouldn’t crave to be touched by my husband like that again.

Except, I am. Desperately. I’m not delusional enough to think he’s going to rush in and sweep me up into his arms, declaring his undying love for me.

But there is something there. I can see the fire in his eyes, he feels our connection. He wants to fuck me again.

He’s already been gone an hour and I’m bored of missing his company. With my mind spiralling, I head to the kitchen and start jabbing some buttons on this old ass radio on the counter.

“Perfect,” I mutter when some faint music comes through the speaker. I twist the knob to turn the volume up slightly. What Mikhail doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Hmm. It’s kinda got me in the mood for a glass of wine. I know we have none of that, but there might be more booze stashed somewhere.

Searching through the cupboards, I do a little dance when my hand connects with a dusty bottle of vodka.

“Oh well, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s vodka. I’m Russian. I’ll be fine,” I mutter to myself.

Taking a glass out, I pour a double measure. I don’t want to get completely wasted, just something to take this edge off.

Sitting back, letting this disgusting liquid burn my insides, I hold back a cough.

The door clicks shut and I down the rest of the contents. I need some courage to ask him what’s going on.

His heavy footsteps get closer and I straighten my spine. He stops at the edge of the table and rests his ring covered fingers on the wood.

“Want some?” I ask, holding up the half empty bottle.

“No thank you.”

Ugh. So polite.

He drags a seat out and sits down next to me.

Why does he have to be so distractingly hot?

“Wanna dance?” I ask, holding back a smirk.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t dance, pretty girl.”

The nickname makes my heart race. His dark eyes burn into mine and I nudge my chair in closer.

“Come on. How can you live life being so serious all the time, when in reality, how much can you actually control? Hmm?”

I rest my palm on his massive bicep and squeeze it, feeling him tense under my touch.

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