Page 116 of For a Price

He could be remorseful on my behalf. Maybe blame himself for what’s happened.

The long silence that stretches between us doesn’t help. It might only be a few seconds, but they feel like forever waiting out his reaction.

I’m watching closely as comprehension dawns on his handsome, chiseled face and his sapphire-blue eyes blaze with an emotion I can’t place.

It’s suddenly like I’m trapped in a room with the same beast I’d met that day in Crowne Tower. He had been instantly and unspeakably formidable, blocking out the entire doorway with his broad frame. Jaw clenched and gaze burning, I’d never felt so shaken by someone’s mere presence.

This is exactly like that.

The silence warps to fit Roman’s mood—his budding temper as it truly sinks in what’s happened and who was involved.

I hadn’t known at first.

I was terrified and blindfolded. But the voice was smooth and thick and distinctly Russian. I knew I had heard it before, which helped narrow down the window to the past few weeks. It obviously wasn’t Roman’s voice. Neither was it his Uncle Leonid or any of the men in his crew.

It wasn’t wheezy like his elderly father.

Then I thought back to the moment when I’d eavesdropped. I’d arrived at Roman’s penthouse and he’d told me to stay put in the bedroom while the pakhan visited. It had been by accident that I discovered I could hear their conversation through the air vents…

My gaze scales up the wall until it reaches the air vent positioned directly above the mirror and dresser. I can hear Roman and another man who must be the pakhan.

I go still and strain my ears, their voices becoming even clearer.

“Ya ne zhdal tvoyego vizita. No dlya menya bol’shaya chest’, chto vy prishli?*.”

“Ya byl v etom rayone, I tvoy otets ochen’ khorosho otzyvayetsya o tebe?*,” comes the pakhan’s smooth baritone. He sounds younger than the sovietnik, despite being his—and everyone’s—boss.

I can’t understand a word they’re saying, but I listen on anyway.

“Yest’ vazhnyy vopros dlya obsuzhdeniya. Vy znayete o napryazhenii v pyati sem’ yakh?*.”

“Da, my dolzhny byt’ umnymi,?*” answers Roman.

The voice had spoken to me again that night as I lay naked in bed with a blindfold on and my fingers on my sex, my heart rabbiting in my chest.

He slams down his drink and the armchair creaks from his movement. He’s getting up. His footsteps thump on the wooden flooring as he makes closer to the bed.

The mask intensifies the moment. All I have are the audible clues he gives me.

I freeze up, holding my breath. Hand still between my thighs, I’m not sure what to expect. My skin crawls at the possibility he’ll touch me instead.

“You are pretending,” he says, standing over the bed. He grabs my wrist and lifts my hand from between my thighs. “There will be no pretending.”

I snap out of my momentary flashback at the abrupt heave Roman gives. He blows out a ragged breath, his cavernous chest rising and falling like he’s run miles.

It’s as if he can’t possibly hold in whatever is forcing its way out.

Roman releases a roar that’s mightier than a lion. The thunderous sound feels like it rattles the entire room. I clap bothhands over my ears and watch in shock as the veins protrude in his thick neck and his large hands form even larger fists.

He spins around and swings on the wall.

One punch. Two punches. Three punches.

Four. Five. Six.

He keeps going ’til he’s cratered the wall completely. Blood pours down his clenched fists yet he keeps going, hammering them into the plaster like he wishes it were somebody’s face.

“Roman, stop it!” I yell finally, rushing forward.

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