Page 63 of Wicked Duty
After adjusting my jacket around her shoulders, she smiles, waves to the crowd, and blows a few kisses.
In a brief moment of insanity, I imagine grabbing her around the waist and tossing her over my shoulder. Carrying her to the car, driving off, and finding a nice secluded alley to rip that dress off her frame and sink inside her until she forgets all about these ogling strangers.
Until I’m the only thing she remembers.
She tilts her face up to me—bright, beautiful, a single dimple in her cheek as she smiles again—and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
This woman will be the death of me.
Chapter 24
Lucy
I’m not sure what crawled up Callum’s ass, but he transformed into a fuming brick wall on the drive back from the round six challenge.
I pick at a loose thread on my shirt. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I might prefer the shouting over this strained silence.
I suck in a breath. “You didn’t have to make such a scene back there, picking me up like that.”
My face burns from the memory. My body flush with his while the dress clung to every inch of me, nothing left to the imagination. I flip the car vents toward my cheeks, cooling them in the air-conditioned breeze.
Doesn’t work. My blood remains overheated.
The muscles in Callum’s arm flex, but he doesn’t speak.
It’s more frigid than the Arctic in here.
I’m proud of what I accomplished today. I worked hard and did a damn good job. But even though I keep telling myself that, Callum’s cold-shoulder blizzard shrouds my good mood.
My stomach churns as the competition location disappears behind us.
What’s eating him?
Is he angry with me? What did I do? We literally just kissed a few hours ago.
Last night, he hurt people simply to ensure I feel safe going home. Now, if not for his job, I think he might invite me to walk straight into traffic.
I spend the entire trip back to the hotel wondering. With each floor that ticks by inside the elevator, my spine tenses a little more. By the time we reach the forty-eighth floor, I’m braced for an explosion of epic proportions the moment we walk through the suite door. Instead, Callum stalks to the couch, drops onto a cushion, and rips open his laptop.
I waver in the entryway. Should I say something? Do something? I kick off my shoes and brave a few steps toward the couch—no plan yet, but I refuse to continue drowning in this silent treatment—when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I grab it and flick the message open. The blood drains from my face.
Oh no…
An unknown number sent a picture of me. Naked. Afraid. Eyes wide and terrified while I lay on an enormous mattress in Viktor Roguilin’s bedroom. Blue silk sheets against my bruise-littered skin. Ugly reminders of my time in that man’s clutches.
The image comes with a lovely little message.
Return what’s mine. Testify, and this is the tamest photo that I’ll post.
I press a hand over my mouth, holding back a gasp or bile or the tears gathering behind my eyes. Maybe all three. I cling to my phone as my body starts shaking.
Viktor’s nails raking over my chest, ripping off my clothes. Sweat and the sickly sweet cologne rubbing into my flesh, staining me with his stench. His body all over me, inside me.
The silk sheets scraping my back. Him pinning me down.
Salty tears burning my chapped, sore lips.
