Chapter 6 – EMMA #2
Then Bodhi’s voice, flat and bored, carries clearly through the cracked window.
“Of course I don’t. Because I’m a grown-ass man who wants a woman who knows what she’s doing.” A pause, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone cold and hard. “And if you value your life, you better keep your hands, and your dick, to yourself.”
Piotr snorts. “Relax. I’m not stupid. Kozlov would cut my balls off and feed them to me.” Jerking his thumb back toward the car, he adds, “You can’t blame a man for dreaming, right?”
I stare at my lap, at my fingers that are twisted together so tightly they’ve gone bloodless. I hate that Bodhi’s words hurt. Hate that I started to think maybe he was different, that maybe he wasn’t like the rest of them.
He knew I was never getting out of this, yet he just sat there and said nothing while I clung to false hope like a child believing in fairy tales.
Idiot. I’m a complete idiot.
Something burns inside me. Indignation and stubborn rage. The fear is still there, a cold knot in my stomach that doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to go away, but now there’s something else rising alongside it. Something harder.
Petty rage.
If compliance isn’t going to save me, what’s the point in being good?
My nails dig into my palms hard enough to leave crescents in my skin.
I could kill him. I could reach through this window and claw his eyes out, tear that smug smile right off his face, but it’s not Piotr my building fury is aimed at.
It’s the man standing with his back to me, pretending to be decent while he helps them sell me.
The scared girl who walked into Kozlov’s club is gone. Dead.
If I’m dying anyway, I’m going to be the most difficult, uncooperative, unmarketable piece of merchandise they’ve ever tried to sell. I’m going to make them regret ever laying eyes on me. I’m going to make their lives hell until I find a way to escape or die trying.
And I’m going to start with him.
“So,” the driver interrupts, choosing to ignore his colleague’s disgusting behavior. “Piotr, you take her to the blue wing. Lock her in the room next to Kozlov’s suite. He wants her close.” He grins at Bodhi, all teeth and no warmth. “And I’ll give our new muscle the grand tour.”
Piotr reaches for my door again, his thick fingers wrapping around the handle this time, and I tense, every muscle bracing.
But Bodhi steps in front of him, shielding me with his body, one hand pressing flat against the door to keep it closed. His shoulders tense as his attention flicks not to me, but to Piotr’s hands. “I’ve got her.”
He dips his head down and extends his other hand toward me, palm up, waiting. “Come on. Get out.” His voice is low enough that only I can hear it, and there’s something in his tone that sounds almost like pleading.
I look at his offered hand, at the calluses on his palm and the scars across his knuckles. I look at his face, at the jaw that’s tight with tension, and dark eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Then I remember it’s all an act.
“No,” I snap, shrinking back further. “Stop pretending to be the good guy.”
Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe? Or guilt, but I’m not done. The anger is building in my chest, hot and bright, and I let it fuel me.
“Nobody here gives a fuck about me, you included, so quit trying to be so damned nice.” I fold my arms across my chest and settle deeper into the leather seat, planting myself like a tree with roots. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them. Maybe even worse.”
“Emma…” he warns, reaching for me again, but I jerk back, swatting at his outstretched hand.
Piotr laughs behind him, a mean, ugly sound. “Looks like she’s not a fan, Lennox. Want me to drag her out?”
He steps forward, reaching for the door handle, but Bodhi’s arm shoots out to block him, palm flat against Piotr’s chest.
“Kozlov told me to keep her safe. That means no marks. No bruises.” His voice is cold. Final. “I’ll handle it.”
Piotr’s eyes narrow, but he backs off with a shrug.
Bodhi ignores him.
Before I can react, he’s climbing into the backseat, fast and decisive, his massive frame filling the doorway and blocking Piotr’s line of sight completely. The car dips under his weight as he moves toward me, and suddenly, the spacious backseat feels impossibly small.
I scramble backward until my shoulders hit the opposite door, stubborn anger flaring hot and sharp in my chest.
He keeps coming, crawling over the leather seat, one hand now planted beside my hip, and the other beside my head, caging me in. The scent of him surrounds me, and my stupid, traitorous body responds with a flush of heat.
“What are you doing?” I snap. “Back off.”
He’s so big. Up close like this, hovering over me, it’s overwhelming. His big body blocks out everything else. His thighs bracket mine. If I breathe too deeply, my chest will probably brush against his.
“Emma.” His voice is low, and that deep rumble vibrates through the small space between us. “Move.”
I stare up at him, my heart beating so hard, so fast, that I’m sure he can hear it.
This close, I can see the individual stubble on his jaw, a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and the way his pupils have blown wide in the darkness.
His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up.
For a moment, I forget why I’m angry. Forget where I am, what’s happening, forget everything except the solid wall of him above me, and the warmth radiating off his body. My lips part, and I feel myself soften, leaning up toward him without meaning to.
Then I remember.
“No.”
“Emma, for God’s sake…” he mutters through gritted teeth.
“NO.”
I draw my knee up and aim a kick straight at his chest.
He catches my ankle before it connects, his hand wrapping around it easily, fingers calloused but warm against my bare skin.
I try to yank free, but his grip is iron, and then his other hand is there too, sliding up to the strap of my stiletto.
“These will have to go,” he murmurs, and his thumb traces along my instep as he unbuckles the shoe, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends tingles racing up my leg and pooling somewhere much lower. “Can’t have you taking my eye out.”
My breath catches. I hate him. I should hate him. So why is my skin burning everywhere he touches?
“Let go of me.”
He removes the other shoe with the same maddening slowness, his fingers brushing against my calf, my ankle, the arch of my foot.
Every touch feels deliberate, electric, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
Then his hands wrap around both my ankles, and he yanks.
I yelp as I’m dragged down the leather seat, my dress riding up around my thighs, until I’m flat on my back with him looming over me.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”
Blinking, I don’t break eye contact, even as I buck suddenly underneath him, trying to squirm out from under him, but it’s pointless. He’s too strong.
When I finally give up, his hips settle between my legs, and I gasp as I feel it, the hard, unmistakable press of his erection against my inner thigh.
My eyes widen.
He freezes, then his weight shifts just enough to pull back from me, like the contact is information he didn’t want to share.
He was lying. I am his type.
For one endless moment, neither of us moves and neither of us breathes. The heat between us is suffocating, and some insane part of me wants to arch up into him, to see what would happen if I rolled my hips against that hardness.
“Fine,” he grits out, his voice strained. “The hard way it is.”
Before I can respond, he’s moving, hauling me toward the open door and lifting me straight off the seat in a fireman’s carry, quick and controlled.
The world spins as he tosses me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, with one large hand bracing my thigh to keep my dress from riding up.
“Put me down.” I pound my fists against his back and kick my feet, but it’s like hitting a brick wall. “You son of a bitch, put me down!”
Piotr wolf-whistles as we pass. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, Lennox.”
I renew my efforts with added spite, but his arm across my thighs is like an iron bar. “How fucking dare you, you overgrown oaf.”
“Keep squirming.” His voice is low and strained. “See where that gets you.”
I squirm harder out of spite and thrash against his grip as he carries me up the steps.
His hand flexes on my ass, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.
“I said…” His voice has gone rough. “Stop. Moving.”
Something about his tone makes my stomach flip. But I ignore it, and in sheer frustration, sink my teeth into his back, biting down hard on the back of his shoulder through his shirt.
He stops mid-stride and groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his whole body and into mine.
His steps falter for just a second, and I feel his hand leave my ass.
Expecting to be dumped onto the ground, I brace myself, but instead, watch in shock as he reaches down to adjust himself through his jeans.
Oh.
Oh.
“Careful, Emma. You’re playing with fire.” He’s moving again, carrying me through the front door, but his voice is rough as the door slams shut behind us. “Bite me again, and I might just bite you back.”