Page 15 of Sold to the Russian
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a fool if you believed the nonsense my father said about being docile. If you think I’m going to roll over and play obedient, respectful wife, then you should probably turn back now and return me to my father.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Of course, you will. You’re a freak. A foolish one at that.”
He turned to her now, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of pure nonchalance. His eyes were unnaturally brown, skating over her face and lingering on her lips for a beat too long. Maeve remembered the curve of his mouth against hers, and she wanted to vomit.
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Maeve.”
He was calm, infuriatingly calm. He even seemed to be growing more amused by her, by the flare of her nostrils, by the angry flush on her cheeks, and by the dark look she shot him.
“You have no right to call my name?”
“You’re my wife,” he cut her short, his voice deepening a fraction. “I will call you whatever I want.”
The metallic taste of blood filled Maeve’s mouth from how hard she’d been biting her tongue. “I’m not your wife. I will never be your wife.”
She raised her hand in that very second and ripped the ring from her finger, jammed her hand on the window, and tossed the jewelry out. By the time she looked back at him, he was staring at her as if he were oddly fascinated by her.
“I’ll just get you another one tomorrow,” he said, his gaze dropping to her finger. “I didn’t like this one anyway.”
A strange, deranged kind of laughter tore out of Maeve’s chest. “What makes you think I’ll accept your ring?”
“You will,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t harsh, but he’d said it with a finality that frightened her.
“You’re a monster,” she said, swallowing thickly. “You’re just like him. A monster hiding behind a clean suit. You’re just as much of a sick bastard as my father is. You’re just as callous, just as cold, just as selfish.”
“You barely know me, Maeve.”
“I know the likes of you,” she sneered, even more annoyed by his gentle voice. There was nothing gentle about the man who pulled a trigger at that man at the bar with a smirk on his face. “You’re a predator and I’m just another victim of yours?”
“You’re not a victim.” He looked angry. “You’re my wife.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You. Are. My. Wife,” he said, his jaw clenching and unclenching with every word. His fingers flexed around the wheel. “The sooner you understand this, the better. You’re mine now, Maeve. You belong to me.”
“Over my dead fucking body.”
Then he smiled, slow and feral. His lips peeled back slowly, teeth bared wide and deliberate. It wasn’t joy or amusement. It was the smile of a predator who liked it when his prey fought back, a twisted kind of smile that made Maeve wary of him. Who the fuck was this man?
“Careful,zhena,” he murmured, his tongue curling around that word in a strangely thick Russian accent. Like it had slipped out of his mouth, but nothing this man did or said seemed to be by accident, which left her even more confused. “There are worse things than dying.”
His gaze turned to her, and she held her breath. “And I’d rather break a wife than bury her.”
She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but it was clear he had just threatened her. At the end of the day, she was right. Her father had sold her to a psychopath, and she wasn’t going to stick around and wait for death at his hands.
She looked around, blood rushing through her veins, her heart pounding, and her mind racing with countless possibilities about how this could end. The highway stretched endlessly ahead, with no lights in sight. No witnesses. No help. He could kill her now, and no one would know, no one would care.
Her eyes felt wet, and she shook her head, annoyed with herself for becoming so easily overwhelmed with emotions likethese when she was supposed to be thinking of ways to get out of this man’s car.
She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back to see if Jonathan was looking.
She reached for the door handle, ready to rip the door open, barely bracing herself to leap. But a click echoed around her, and the doors automatically locked, the handle going stiff in her loose grip.
Maeve’s head whipped around. Jonathan wasn’t even looking at her.
“Your father warned me you might try something impulsive. Your face gave it away,” he said, leaning back against the seat with a tired sigh. “Very bold of you, by the way. You’d still be my wife even if you threw yourself out of the car and broke your neck. You’d be my wife even if you smashed your skull on the road. You’d be my wife even in your grave.”
