Page 13 of Wicked Proposal
Nice going, Mia. Why don’t you give him your Social Security number, too?
Think he knows that your blood type is O-neg?
What about the freckle on the inside of your thigh? Why not just give him a peek of that for good measure?
“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound casual and mysterious and sounding more like I’m unsure about my own alma mater instead. “Maybe not.”
It’s a pathetic attempt. I know it, Yulian knows it—hell, even Maksim probably knows it.
Five minutes I’ve been in this car, and I’ve already made myself ridiculous in the eyes of all its occupants.
“Alright, I’m decent. You can look?—”
Now,I wanted to say, but my breath catches halfway.
Because there are hands on the zipper at my back.
And they’re not mine.
“Keep still,” a hot, gravelly voice whispers behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck, the warm pressure of strong hands. “We wouldn’t want to rip your new dress, would we, Ms. Winters?”
I hate the way he says my name.
Mynot-name, the one I resurrected from my great-grandmother’s diary when my real one became unusable.
But at the same time, I’m glad it’s not myactualname he’s saying.
Mia Winters—she’s tough. She can take it.
Euphemia Collins—the name I was born with—absolutely could not.
But then again, Euphemia Collins couldn’t take a lot of things. That’s why she’s dead and buried. That’s why I’m Mia now.
“I told you not to look,” I hiss, hating the way my voice trembles.
“I wasn’t. I turned around, like you asked.” He sounds way too pleased with himself. “Towards the window.”
Which is a reflective surface.Of fucking course. Talk about malicious compliance.
“You’re awful.”
“I’ve been called worse things.” Again, that hot breath on my neck, closer than sin. “You should know—you said several of them.”
Yulian’s fingers deftly work the zipper up, one hand still buried in my hair to keep it from getting caught. I feel myself go slack under his touch, pliant, malleable. Play-Doh in his hands.
All things I haven’t let myself be in a long time.
Desperate for a distraction, I turn my attention to the window. The limo is gliding smoothly over the Brooklyn Bridge now, city lights blurring as we zoom past.
But no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, I can still feel Yulian’s gaze on me.
“So, uhh… What’s this event we’re going to?”
“You’ll see.”
Great. Thanks. Really helpful.
“You’re not a big conversationalist, are you?”
