Page 34 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
In response, I hear him, too—“mm”—a deep vibration, caught in the air between us.
Oh my word, I’m doing it again. I’m perving.
No, but actually he is, too. He’s the one leaning over me. He’s the one blocking my way.
He wants me.
I look up at him.
There is a dark smile touching one corner of his mouth, the smile he used to have when he wanted to play. When he wanted to punish me for some imaginary thing. When he would be bend me over the back of the sofa and let his fingers sting across my pussy as he spanked me.
My lips part as I take in a sharp breath. A gasp.
No.
He’s teasing me again. He did this before. He mocked me by seducing me. By pretending he wanted to kiss me.
I step back, horrified that I’m falling for the exact same thing again.
Emmanuil grabs my arm and tugs me close again.
“I’m watching you, kitten. Don’t forget that,” he growls.
“Pfft,” I hiss, pressing both hands against his chest and shoving myself away from him. “I’m going out. You do whatever you want. I’m going crazy in this boring mansion doing boring nothing all boring day,” I blurt out like a child throwing a tantrum. I don’t care if I sound silly. I mean it.
I’m over this, and I’m over him taunting me, one moment hating me, the next pretending to want me, only to laugh in my face about the fact that I fell for it. I think the only reason he has the power to turn me on so much is because of how long it’s been since I had sex.
Yes, Anya, that’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with how you feel about him.
Emmanuil doesn’t move from the doorway, so I duck under his arm, brushing against his side as I squeeze past him, muttering the entire time about manners and personal space.
I hear him chuckle as I storm away, back to my room to get changed.
Originally, I was just going to go for a drive or somewhere normal, safe, calm. But now I’m annoyed and frustrated, and I want to provoke him as much as he provoked me.
So, I’m going to a bar.
He can track my damned phone. I don’t care. Let him see, and maybe get the message loud and clear that I’m not his little puppet.
In my room, with the door slammed shut behind me, I search around in my closet for what I want to wear.
My fingers brush over the pink dress, and I giggle, knowing it would infuriate him. But I’ll save that for another day. I find a summery, soft flowing peach dress with thin straps and a pretty lace border around the skirt, and pull that out. Pairing it with my white sneakers, I pull my hair up into a messy bun and shove my phone into my purse.
A touch of lip gloss, a soft spray of perfume, and I’m ready to go.
When I tug the door open, I half expect Emmanuil to be standing there, ready to enforce his law. But he isn’t. And it’s mildly disappointing.
Hurrying downstairs, still expecting someone to come out and stop me, I run into the garage, find the keys for the army green Range Rover, and climb into the driver’s seat.
Still, no one comes to stop me. Pressing the button on the dashboard, I start the engine and reverse out of the garage into the long driveway. The guards open the gate for me and smile, nodding politely.
“Mm. Maybe he got the message after all. Maybe he’s given up being a total douchebag trying to control me the entire time,” I say to myself as I pull out into the road and turn left towards the strip of beach bars along the coast.
It’s strange that my eyes keep drifting to my rearview mirror.
Despite everything, my heart wants him to chase me down. I want to spend time with him. I want to be around him, but it’s pointless. He’s not the same man he was before.
Or he is, but he no longer loves me, so I don’t get to see that side of him.
