Page 11 of The Savage

He turns his back, giving me the chance to scramble to my feet and aim a well-placed kick on the back of his knee. As he goes down, he hits the corner of the table with his head and his angry growl has me sprinting from the room. As I slam the bathroom door behind me, his angry yell as he thumps against it gives me a moment’s respite before a huge crash makes me jump and nothing can save me from a very angry Russian who looks as if he wants to kill me.

I note the gash to his temple and the blood trickling down his face and experience a moment’s guilt that I did that to him. Despite everything, the spanking aside, he hasn’t hurt me, and this is how I’ve repaid him.

Reaching out, he grabs hold of my arms and twists them behind my back before dragging me from the room and forcing me down on to a wooden chair, where he binds my wrists behind my back before doing the same to my ankles.

As I scream and struggle, a broad hand lies flat against my mouth and he says roughly, “Scream and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Just the promise renders me speechless for life and as the tears pour down my face, I am now facing the consequences of my actions as he storms from the room, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER8

IVAN

I’m not proud that I lost my temper. If anything, I feel like a fool and as I clean myself up, I note the shattered door falling on its hinges and growl with annoyance.

I let her get to me and demonstrated why I deserve every syllable of my name. I am a savage and it’s never been any different.

Being the son of the most hated man in Russia, outside of the president, kind of makes you grow up fast. There was no love ever shown or father, son chats. Hell, I don’t even know who my mother is and I’m guessing whoever she was, she is long gone now. Women don’t last long in our world. They are there purely for entertainment value and as soon as they stop being a pleasant distraction, they are replaced by a new one.

Sighing, I press a pad against my face and try to stem the blood from a wound that’s merely irritating rather than serious and think about the woman who is currently tied to a chair in the living room.

She doesn’t deserve this treatment. She doesn’t deserve this life and must be fucking terrified. One minute she’s in some freaking school still in the Victorian era and the next thing she knows, she’s sparring with a savage in the most depressing city in the world. It almost makes me laugh as I remember her challenge and the way she casually stood there and asked if I wanted a fight. The way she faced me down with her hands on her hips with all the fury of Hades flashing in her eyes piqued my interest.

It was a surprising switch from the domestic goddess cleaning the windows not moments earlier and that alone was surprising hearing her humming like a trapped bird in hell.

Now I’ve calmed down, I wonder if the cut affected me more than I first thought because I am a little nauseous. In fact, my reflection is starting to blur, and I wonder if I’ve got a concussion.

As I drop to my knees, I grip the side of the toilet basin and the bile rises in my throat, providing an overwhelming urge to be sick.

Something’s wrong. I’m never sick and certainly not after a fight. I’ve been hit worse than this before, much worse and never been affected other than bruising and a few broken bones for my sins. Something definitely doesn’t feel right and as I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the dizziness hits me and an unwelcome thought hits me hard.

I’ve been poisoned.

I recognize the signs and as I hurl again, I remember back over the past twenty-four hours and the only thing I can put it down to is the warm waffles the flight attendant served to us on the plane.

Knowing I wasn’t the only one who ate them, directs my thoughts to Charlotte and dragging my body to stand, I rinse out my mouth with the rather dubious water that flows from the taps.

As I lurch from the room, trying desperately to keep it together, I stagger into the living room and see an ashen face staring at me with fright.

“I’m going to be sick.”

She gasps as she hangs her head and I nod, stumbling across to her chair and reaching for my knife.

Her head snaps up and she gasps, “What are you doing?”

I can’t speak because the urge to hurl is too strong and mustering as much strength as I have left, I slice the bindings on her hands and feet and gasp, “Bathroom.”

She slaps her hand across her mouth and nods, barely making the short distance before I hear her retching into the pan and my heart beats out of control as I struggle to make sense of this.

My internal organs feel as if they are being dragged from my body and I break out into a cold sweat as I reach for my phone.

I know the signs, and this isn’t the result of E.coli. This is deliberate and I call the only man I can trust who answers immediately.

“Ivan.”

“Malik.” My voice is rough and dripping with torment and he says urgently,“What happened?”

“Poisoned.”

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