Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
KOSTYA
S he tried to fight, but one firm slap to her ass made her stop.
My shoes slid in the mud as we made our way through the hay-covered field.
“I–” Marina started, and I tightened my grip on her thighs.
“No. You don’t get to speak.” The control I had over myself was being held together by a single fucking thread.
If she tried to talk to me now, if she gave me some lame excuse, or worse, gave me fucking lip, I was going to lose my shit. Neither one of us could afford for me to lose my temper right now, so I needed to stay quiet.
Slowly, we made our way across the field to the farmhouse.
There was an old sedan in the driveway.
I set her down and gave her a look that said, “stay.”
I checked the driver’s door, and luckily, it was unlocked .
“You can get in the passenger seat willingly or I can shove you in the trunk. Your choice.”
She looked at me for a second, blinking back tears that welled in her eyes as her hands tightened into fists at her sides.
That should have made me feel bad, but it didn’t. I knew better. Those weren’t tears of sadness or even fear that filled her pretty eyes. They were tears of frustration.
She didn’t say a word, just got into the passenger seat. It only took me a second to hot-wire the car and then we were on the road.
Not a single inside light turned on, and as far as I could tell, everyone in the house was still asleep. Good. That meant her little stunt would not cost people their lives.
I didn’t need another mess to clean up in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere.
I cranked up the heat and followed the signs to New York City.
It was ten hours of complete deafening silence.
Marina tried talking a few times, but I shut it down every single time. I was white-knuckling the steering wheel while maneuvering around assholes and grandmas on the highway.
“Can we stop so I can use the bathroom?”
“Not on your life,” I ground out.
Was I being unreasonable? Yes. Did I give a fuck? Absolutely not.
After the shit she pulled, she was lucky she wasn’t in the fucking trunk.
The entire trip, I was focused on the pounding in my ears and the desire to hit something over and over and over. I needed a punching bag, in the gym. That, or some random asshole would work.
All I needed was someone to fucking push me and I was going to lose my shit.
I wasn’t going to do that on her.
Logically, I knew she was scared, and I knew she was feeling trapped.
That was why my little rabbit ran.
The problem with logic was that it never quelled my rage.
It never satisfied that hunger for violence that ran through my veins.
If I were back home, I would have locked her in the bedroom or even in the fucking closet to make sure she couldn’t run away again while I went to work this out in the gym.
Instead, I was trapped in a small car, caked in mud, driving through the night to finally get to the city, which was nothing but bumper-to-bumper traffic even at this hour of the day.
Fuck my life.
Now that we’d finally gotten back to civilization, Marina tried speaking again.
“Where are we?—”
“Nope.” I cut her off.
“But I want?—”
“Absolutely not. If you do not keep your pretty mouth shut, I will give you something better to do with it.”
Even the thought of forcing her head down onto my lap for a blowjob while I drove had my cock lengthening down my inner thigh inside my pants.
She crossed her arms over her chest and scooted over toward her window.
I drove straight to the Ritz-Carlton.
Just because I was mad at Marina didn’t mean I was going to make her stay in some rat-infested motel. I should’ve, though. If it were anyone else, I would have rented a room by the hour so we could clean up and leave.
Marina, even when I was pissed at her, deserved better.
Waving the porter off, I strode around the car to Marina’s door.
She hesitated.
I grabbed her arm, fingers digging into the caked mud on her sleeve. She didn’t fight me this time.
Maybe she was learning. Or maybe she just realized there were too many witnesses.
The entryway of the Ritz-Carlton was a gleaming shrine of wealth, all Italian marble and chandeliers dripping with crystal. The heavy scent of polished wood and fresh-cut orchids clashed violently with the raw earth still clinging to us.
My shoes left smudges of filth on the Persian runner as I hauled Marina inside.
People stared. Socialites dressed to the teeth in designer couture, businessmen in cashmere coats and expensive leather attaché cases, staff in their perfectly pressed uniforms. They looked at us the way one might look at rats scurrying across a five-star restaurant’s floor.
I slid my hand from Marina’s shoulder down to her wrist, tightening my grip to make it look like we were just another couple. Never mind the mud, never mind the tension crackling between us.
At the front desk, the receptionist’s expression barely concealed her disgust, one manicured finger already hovering over the phone, ready to call security.
I pulled out my black Amex and slammed it down. “I need a suite. The best you have. My account is under Ivanov.”
Her eyes flicked from my face to the card. Recognition dawned. Her posture shifted, all contempt replaced by professional polish.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, fingers flying over the keyboard. “The presidential suite is available. Would that suffice?”
“That will work.” I didn’t ask the price. I didn’t need to. “The car outside needs to be detailed and returned to this address.” I scribbled the farmhouse address from what I saw on its registration on a piece of hotel stationary. “I don’t care how it gets there, just charge it to my bill.”
“Of course, sir.” She folded the paper neatly, slipping it beneath the counter.
“I need clothes. My measurements and preferences should already be on file. Three suits. Casual wear. Make it fast.”
“Yes, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Clothes for the lady as well. Size six in a dress. And eight in jeans. A small in lingerie. Size 32C bra.” Her measurements were burned into my touch memory.
At that, Marina stiffened.
I didn’t look at her. Instead, I plucked the room’s keycard from the receptionist’s outstretched fingers, then reclaimed Marina’s wrist, tugging her toward the elevator.
The moment the gold doors slid shut, sealing us in the scent of leather and lingering perfume, Marina wrenched her arm free.
Her eyes blazed, fury burning away the exhaustion. “What?—”
“No.” My voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to ask questions.” I stepped into her space, forcing her against the mirrored wall. “Not a single fucking word, or the spanking I gave you in that train car will seem like child’s play.”