Page 83 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
I try to jerk my hand away, but his grip remains like iron, growing tighter and tighter until my knuckles scream and grind together.
“Mr. Havershire—you’re hurting me!”
“Oh, am I?” He sounds surprised, then he suddenly lunges at me while jerking my hand toward his body at the same time.
I stumble into him with a yelp, colliding with his body. He wraps one foot around my ankle and jerks my leg, forcing me to trip. My violin slips from my grasp and within a second, he slams me face down onto the desk. His body presses down so heavily onto mine that the edge of the desk cuts into my hip.
“What—get off me, what the fuck? Get the fuck off me!”
“I’m not satisfied,” Mr. Havershire growls in my ear, one large hand cradling the side of my head and forcing my cheek flat against his desk. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that? When I heard about you, I couldn’t believe it. I said there’s no way someone could finally do it. But then I found your agent and I realized the easiest way to get you was to let you walk right into my trap.”
I can’t breathe. He leans his full weight onto me and he’s too heavy. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, my heart pounds so hard I can taste iron on the back of my tongue, and none of my struggles against him or the desk do anything to help me.
“Get off!” Panic surges like a wave inside me followed by a sickly chill that crawls over my shoulders and down my back. “Getoffme!”
“No,” Mr. Havershire growls. “Like I said, I went to a lot of trouble for this!”
I’m barely able to understand what he’s saying but as his body shunts and grinds against me, one of my desperately scrambling hands knocks over a paperweight. It’s all I have. I grab it and throw my elbow backward, hitting something soft that forces Mr. Havershire to lean upward with a grunt.
Gasping for air, I twist my body and swing my fist, catching him on the side of his face with the paperweight. It smashes on impact, and he roars in pain as liquid and glitter rain down on his pristine suit, mingling with the blood from the glass shards now embedded in his face.
As he stumbles off me and hits the ground, I shove off the desk and sprint for the door, but his fist closes around my ankle and I fall with a scream. Twisting my body around, Mr. Havershire’s bloodied face glares at me, and as I raise my other leg to kick him in the face, I see it.
The heart tattoo on his wrist.
Wait.
When Zoe mentioned it, I knew I’d seen one before.
It has to be some twisted coincidence, right? But then the things Mr. Havershire was saying? There’s no time to think.
I slam my heeled shoe down into his face and his grip slips, allowing me to scramble back to my feet. Rather than leaving immediately, I turn and kick him as hard as I can in his crotch.
“You fucking rapist prick!” I scream down at him, kicking him again as hard as I can.
Then I run.
Out the door and down the corridor, trying to retrace my steps back to the ballroom. Tears flow down my cheeks, my heart pounds, and my head thumps from the surge of adrenaline, but I don’t stop until I crash into someone who grabs me so tightly that a scream of fear rips from me.
“No!”
“Hollie, it’s me!” Stu’s face swims before me and his usually irritated face melts briefly into concern. “Holy shit, what happened?”
“We have to leave,” I gasp, clutching at his arms. “Please get me out of here.”
“Hollie, what?—”
“Take me home!” I yell, trying to shove him away, but he refuses to let me go.
“Alright. Alright, we’re leaving, but you have to tell me what happened!”
“No, no, it’s… please, please, we have to go. We have to go!” Stu can’t protect me, not here. If that man is who I think he is, then we both have to get out of here before he gets back on his feet.
Stu finally complies and with my purse and shawl clutched in his other hand, he whisks me right out of the manor.
It’s not until I’m in the car, fighting the sobs wrenching through me that I realize I left my violin behind in that fucker’s study.
30
