Page 59 of Brutal Promise

Is he teasing me? My eyes haven’t left his physique, yet I sip the warm drink.

“It’s chilly in here,” I say to change the subject and stop feeding his ego.

“I just turned the heat up. The temperatures dipped last night.”

“Wait, it’s dark out. What time is it?” I always had a routine, coffee, workout, and attend classes. I never sleep in late.

“It’s five in the morning. Anton is making sure the electronic gates are manned, and no one can get in and take what is mine.”

I flinch. He’s referring to me as if I’m a possession.

“My hope is to have two weeks in London before they discover we’ve left the country. That’s overly optimistic, but still, I want time with you to get settled before the wedding.”

“Oh, you want the bad guys thinking we went to Vegas,” I say to let him know I’ve been paying attention.

“Exactly.” He grins, and I take that as a win.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he leans against the bedroom door. I am keenly aware of the package stuffed in his tight jeans. How does he manage to get something the size of a toddler’s arm shoved inside his pants? Dmitry’s not only hung like a porn star, he knows how to use it, and I’m putty in his hands. No other man has ever given me multiple orgasms, but I’ll never tell him. A man with his self-confidence doesn’t need to know how much I crave him.

I have to remember he’s a killer of men, but in his defense, his latest kills were to save me. Thankfully, my nightmares haven’t returned. I’m sure having Dmitry lying next to me every night helps.

The way he makes me feel safe makes our forced marriage more palpable. It’s not in my best interest to go it alone. I doubt I will ever return to my normal life. Honestly, it wasn’t all that special. I had a college degree but no income, nor did I have a way of paying off my student loans.

Dmitry walks to the bedroom window and peers through the blinds, separating them ever so slightly. His movements are slow and deliberate.

He turns back to me. “The flight to Vegas is at nine. We need to leave soon so we can fly to London close to that time. There’s a convoy of cars waiting downstairs who will distract any tails when we leave.” He gestures with his hands as he strides across the room, explaining the plan to me.

“Some vehicles will go to LaGuardia. Others will go to JFK and Newark while we head to Teterboro, the private airport. They won’t be able to follow all the cars.”

My jaw drops.

“Private jet?” I squeal. “A private airport?” This is how movie stars and rock stars travel and why they are rarely seen on commercial flights.

He smiles at my silliness, but I don’t care. He’s gorgeous when the corners of his mouth turn up and a seldom-seen dimple appears on his right cheek. His teeth are perfect, and so is his wavy, dirty blond hair. No one should look this good at five o’clock in the morning. The faint smell of him mixed with mint and musk swirls lightly in the air.

“Do you feel warmer?” he asks, his arms folded over his chest.

I wonder if he was ever in the army because when he stands, he never slouches. His feet are always firmly planted just so, and he crosses his arms defensively. Maybe he was in the Russian army, maybe not.

“Yes, thank you.” I try not to stare, but it can’t be helped. He fills the room.

His no-nonsense approach to our predicament is very comforting. Unexpected events do not easily rattle him. His past is unclear, and he never volunteers personal information.

“No problem,” he replies. “I suggest you get dressed. We need to pack and get out of here within an hour.”

I throw back the covers and leap from the bed. If I linger, Dmitry will find a way to seduce me before breakfast. He has a way of making it impossible for me to refuse him. It’s not that I don’t want him. The issue is that I do. And if he ever finds out, he’ll always have the upper hand.

I scamper into the bathroom. I take a quick shower, washing my hair. I remember seeing a blow dryer under the sink. I can’t look like shit when we arrive in London. I towel dry my hair and pick up another thick towel to dry myself.

I run conditioner through my hair and blow it out with the hair dryer. I use my fingers to fluff it and wonder what my mom looked like in her twenties. Maybe someone in New York City recognized me because I look like her. I know we shared the same thick, black hair.

I walk into the closet and pull new panties out, and they match the bra I always wanted but could never afford. I tug on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, throwing an oversized sweater over it. Alena helped me pick out these clothes. She does have good taste, expensive, but good. I don’t know what it is about me. I’m great at dressing others, but not myself.

I check my look in the bathroom mirror. Layering clothes is always the way to go when the weather is fickle. I apply moisturizer to my face along with foundation. I even use a bronzer. Why not splurge on the best products Dmitry’s money can buy?

Satisfied with my look, I duck back into the closet to pull on socks and grab a pair of low-heeled suede boots. I hear Dmitry moving about and peek in to catch him packing his silver laptop into one of two matching roller bags. One must be for me.

“How am I to fit everything into this tiny thing?”

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