Page 21 of Owned By her Enemy
But I’m held by those silver eyes. Neither of us moves.
“Don’t do this, ptichka,” he murmurs, careful and quiet as if I were a wild animal he’s taming. “Give yourself to me instead.”
For a second, I let myself imagine it. Dropping the knife and all my principles.
“I can’t.” I’m naked on top of this amazing, terrifying, deadly man, and I’ve hesitated in my one goal. By all measures he should already be dead. The metal is right by the artery in his neck, pulsing just under the skin.
One press.
I have to.
But the press I make isn’t with my hand. It’s my hips, down onto the flat of his cock.
“I’ll give you everything,” he continues in a rough whisper. “All the freedom you want and all the love you can take. You’re brave and resilient, and I respect that. I’m on your side.”
“You killed my mother.” Firmer ground here. My hand isn’t steady, but I can do this, even caught as I am in his eyes.
“My hands are soaked in blood, yes,” he says, low and easy. “But not hers, ptichka.”
I don’t believe him. I can’t.
“What the hell does that mean? Ptichka.” My hand is shaking now, and the knife slices into the skin of his neck. A trail of red slides down to the pillow.
Well. I said it wouldn’t be my virgin blood on the sheets. I was right.
He chuckles. “You want to know, do you?”
“Whatever,” I mutter petulantly. “I’ll google it once you’re dead.”
But I don’t kill him. I look into his eyes and wish things were different.
“It means little bird. It’s a Russian endearment.”
Right. Well, that was an anti-climax. He was using a generic term of affection. Nothing special.
I am going to kill him. I am. As soon as I remember the last time anyone called me anything but Charlotte or Rapunzel or…
“But you could also translate it as little songbird.”
Oh my god.
There’s only one person who calls metheir little songbird.
“You’re…”
“Yes.” He reaches up, oh so slowly, clasps my hand and brushes his thumb over my knuckles, then moves the knife from his throat as I’m in shock. My husband is the one person who I’ve relied on and has believed in me. He’s the first to compliment me on my latest songs, or commiserate when I’ve let my mask slip and revealed my loneliness.
“I’ve been listening to you all along.”
I’m so entranced by the idea of him caring for me, I’ve forgotten his other sins. I tighten my grip on the knife.
Revenge. There’s still revenge for my mother. However sweet he was to me, that doesn’t mitigate against murder. I take a breath, strengthening my resolve, and go to stab him in the gut.
But as I move, he does too, snatching my hand and pinning it above my head. I reach for his eyes, to scratch and claw, and my knees come up, hard and fast.
He’s too quick. My other arm is wrenched up, and his thighs cover mine, pressing me into the bed.
I’m trapped. Both of my wrists are in one of his hands, and he’s heavy on top of me, my core exposed, my breasts naked and his rough chest hair rubbing on my nipples. His hard length is bearing down onto my stomach and my legs are spread by his.
