Page 50 of Beautiful Cruelty

No…I think.I know exactly what would've happened.

His thumb had traced my lip, parting it with ease. His palm moved against my face, slowly shifting towards the back of my head as if to control the pace.

And I had reached up to pull him down by his tie down towards me.

I was about to kiss him.

Kiss?That tiny little voice pipes up in my head.You were about to do so much more than kiss.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat up my face.

I should be outraged that he went through my phone and jerked himself off to my pictures. But instead, I feel something else—something I definitely shouldn't be feeling about him:

Desire.

Slowly, I part my thighs as my fingers start trailing down my legs.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes—a calendar reminder for my hair appointment before my cancelled wedding—and snaps me out of my moment of madness.

I clamp my legs shut, mortified at what I was about to do. Heat floods my cheeks as reality crashes back in.

What am I thinking? I can't let him get to me like this.

I grab my phone and start scrolling back through the texts that he exchanged with Megan.

Each one is exactly as he said: the technical truth of everything that's happened since our paths crossed at the Vorobyov event.

Vadim hadn't been lying.

And with a start, I realize that he truly has only ever been truthful with me. It's a refreshing change, that's for sure.

But just then, a new worry creeps in. If Vadim hacked my phone, what else does he know about me? He already knows about Megan.

Does he also know about Dad?

My heart pounds as I set the phone aside and glance back at the camera.He already knows about them. There's no way he wouldn't. And if he's serious about who and what he is, then they'll be safe as long as I play my part in his game.

A strange calmness washes over me.

I may be playing his game. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him.

Rising carefully from the bed, I test my weight on my injured ankle. The ice pack is helping. It's tender but manageable. I grab the crutches and make my way to the door.

You want me to play? Fine. Let's play.

In the hallway, I spot Lenka directing a maid. "Excuse me," I call out. "Do you have an alteration kit I could borrow?"

She turns, eyebrows raised. "An alteration kit?"

"Yes. Those dresses in my closet are beautiful, but they don't quite fit. I'd like to adjust them."

"We can have someone do that for you," Lenka says, studying my face.

I shake my head. "I prefer to do it myself. I have experience." When she doesn't move, I add, "Please. I need something to keep my hands busy."

Understanding flickers across her weathered features. She nods to the maid, who hurries off and returns moments later with a wicker sewing basket.

"Thank you," I say, taking it from her. The familiar weight of scissors and thread brings an odd comfort. At least this is something I still have control over.

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