Page 23 of Poisoned Vows

I take the glass from him. I want to refuse it, but something tells me that he’d push the issue—and I’m curious. He makes it sound like a delectable treat.

Choose your battles, Lilliana. The thought startles me, as I take the crystal glass out of his hand. If I’m going to have to marry this man, my life is going to be a long war of attrition, studded with battles that I suspect I will largely lose. If I fight them all, I’ll be exhausted before we’re six months in.

I take a sip of the whisky. It stings my tongue, a line of fire to the back of my throat, and I cough when I swallow it, the liquid sloshing in the glass as I lean forward sharply. Nikolai takes the glass out of my hand, his other hand suddenly on my back as I cough again, and I see a small smirk on his face as he looks down at me.

For a brief second, I almost think I see a glimmer of concern, too, through the amusement. But I’m certain I’ve imagined it.

“It can be a little startling the first time you try it.” His voice is still smoky, a hint of innuendo there under the words, like he’s not entirely referring to the drink. “I can get you wine instead, if you like.”

“No, it’s fine.” I reach for the glass, suddenly determined to finish it. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I can’t handle something so minor.

So much for picking your battles.

I take another sip, this time forcing myself to hold it in my mouth for a second before I swallow, bracing myself for the burn. I try to taste what Nikolai told me—the peat and vanilla, to feel the way it smooths out after that initial wave of heat.

The second taste doesn’t give me that, or the third. But by the time I get to the fourth swallow, I start to taste what he meant.

Itisgood. Not my preferred drink, I still think I like the wine better—but there’s something seductive and masculine about it that makes me feel more confident, sitting here and sipping the whisky next to this man. Like maybe I can hold my own in this situation.

Until I look at him and see his eyes on my mouth, and a tremor of fear ripples through me again.

Who am I kidding?Nikolai will take what he wants. He always will. I can fight against it—and I plan to—but all of this is just a game to make me think that he’s something better than a brutal thug who has stolen a wife against her will.

I set the glass down. There’s a bit of amber liquid in it still, but I’ve lost my taste for it.

“This is all unnecessary,” I tell him flatly, gesturing at the drinks, the fire, and the thick, soft rug beneath us. “All of this—window dressing. I’d rather just get it over with, if there’s no way out.”

Nikolai’s gaze flicks up to mine, and I see those blue-grey eyes darken. There’s something heated and violent in them, something that I can see he’s holding back, and his voice is low and rough when he speaks.

“And what do you mean by that,krasivaya devushka?”

Beautiful girl.I speak Russian as well as anyone else—my father is first generation, and he instilled the language into me along with English. I know it’s meant to soften me. To compliment me. I refuse to let it do either.

I hold his gaze. It’s the best I can do—to not back down. His full lips part, and he reaches out, his hand on the side of my face as he draws me towards him.

I should try to pull away, to jerk back and avoid his kiss. But I feel like a deer in headlights, frozen as he tugs me forward, his thumb brushing over my jaw almost delicately.

This man has had his fingertips inside of me, but this is our first kiss. It’s all so ridiculously backwards.

And then his lips touch mine for the first time, and every thought flies out of my head.

I’ll think later about how much I hate myself for that. How much I wish that the kiss—my first kiss—had been disgusting, that it had turned me off. But instead, I feel a flush of heat as his warm mouth presses against mine, the taste of whisky on his lips, on his tongue as he slides it over my lower lip. I hear his soft groan, deep in his throat, feel his other hand on my waist as he pulls me closer across the rug, and I’m suddenly so aware ofeverythingthat I feel—of the thick fur under my hands as I grip it, closing my hands into the rug so I don’t give in to the urge to reach out and touch him, the flickering heat of the fire across from us and the intimate awareness of his big, muscled body so close to mine.

In two short weeks, that muscled body will be atop mine. He won’t just be kissing me, he’ll beinsideme. He’ll take what has been prepared for him, what I’ve been taught my whole life that I was meant to give over. But instead of one night, or a few—it will be forever.

The thought makes me tense up, chasing away the building pleasure, the sensation dancing over my skin as he started to deepen the kiss, his tongue teasing between my lips. My hands clench in the thick fur of the rug, and I stiffen. I pull away, all the budding softness in me gone.

I wait for him to push the issue. To pull me into his lap. To spill me back on the rug and strip away my clothing and take what he’s claimed. When my gaze flicks downwards, I can see the evidence of how much he wants to, straining against the front of his finely tailored trousers. He’s hard—andhuge. I feel a different kind of fear, seeing the thick ridge against the fabric of his pants. I have no idea how that is going to fit inside of me. Especially not if I don’t want him there.

I’m not an idiot. I have some idea of how this all works. And I know that it makes a difference if I’m turned on or not.

Well, you didn’t have much of a problem getting wet when he fingered you in front of an audience, did you?

The thought sends a hot flush up my neck, racing into my cheeks, embarrassment overtaking me in an instant. I let go of the rug, wrapping my arms around myself as I turn away from Nikolai.

“I’m tired,” I tell him stiffly. “It’s been a long day. I’d like to go to bed now.”

I expect him to refuse. To tell me that I’ll go to bed whenhesays I will, when he’s finished with me. But instead, he stands up without another word, holding out a hand to me.

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