Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
I’ll think about him later, when I’ve had some sleep and my brain isn’t so fried.
Wrapping a second towel around my dripping hair, I open the bathroom door, step out, and jump up with a startled scream.
Peter Sokolov is sitting on the bed, his hooded gaze trained on my face.
Chapter 17
Sara
“Don’t scream, Sara.” He rises fluidly to his feet. “No need to involve the other guests in this.”
I gasp for air, needles of adrenaline piercing my skin as he comes toward me, his large body moving with predatory ease.
“You… you followed me here.” My knees knock together as I instinctively back away, clutching the flimsy towel covering my body.
“Yes.” He stops a couple of feet from me, his gray eyes gleaming. “You shouldn’t have come here. Your alarm system at home poses at least a small challenge. Here, I can walk right in.”
“Why are you here?” My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my throat. “What do you want?”
His lips twitch in dark amusement. “You’re a doctor who deals with the effects of this activity. You can probably guess what I want.”
Oh God. My skin feels both hot and icy, and my pulse jacks up even more. “Get out. I—I will scream, I swear.”
He tilts his head quizzically. “Will you? Why haven’t you done so yet?”
I take another step back, my gaze flicking to the room door for a fraction of a second. Would I make it before he catches me?
“Don’t try it, Sara. If you run, I will chase you.”
I continue backing away. “I told you, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“No? We’ll see about that.”
He comes toward me, and I back up more, my stomach twisting. I know what sexual assault does to women; I’ve seen the aftermath, the physical and emotional wreckage left behind. I don’t know if I can survive that on top of everything else.
I don’t know if I can survive it from him.
My trembling hand touches the door, but before I can twist the knob, his palms slap against the door on each side of me, caging me between his powerful arms.
“You can’t escape me, ptichka,” he says softly, gazing down at me. “Not now, and not ever. You might as well get used to that.”
He’s not touching me, but he’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his large body and see a couple more tiny scars on his symmetrical face. The imperfections add a deadly edge to his magnetism, intensifying its impact on my senses. My heartbeat is a panicked roar in my ears, yet my body tightens in a way that has nothing to do with fear. I should be screaming my head off, or at least trying to fight him, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stare at the lethally beautiful killer holding me captive.
“Come, Sara.” His hand slides down to lock around my wrist in a familiar iron shackle. “I won’t hurt you.”
I inhale shakily. “You won’t?” Maybe he’ll be gentle. Please, let him at least be gentle. I’ve experienced violence at his hands, and it terrifies me even more than the specter of rape.
“No. Now come.”
He pushes away from the door, but instead of leading me to the bed, he takes me to the chair in front of the vanity mirror.
“Sit.” He presses down on my shoulders, and I sink into the chair, trying to steady my ragged breathing. What is he doing? Why isn’t he just attacking me? My face in the mirror is deathly pale, my eyes wide as he steps behind me and pulls something from the inner pocket of his jacket.
It’s a small hairbrush wrapped in plastic—one of those cheap ones they sometimes give out in hotels and upscale airlines.
“This is all they had at the gift shop downstairs,” he says, removing the plastic wrap before meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I figured it’s better than nothing.”
Better than nothing for what? Some weird kinky game? My throat constricts, but before the panic can overtake me, he unwraps the towel on my head and drops it on the floor. His strong, sun-browned hands look huge next to my skull as he gathers my hair into a wet ponytail and begins working through the knots with the brush.
Shock steals all air from my lungs. My husband’s killer—the man who’s been stalking me—is brushing my hair.
His touch is gentle but sure, lacking any trace of hesitation. It’s as if he’s done this a dozen times before. He runs the brush through the ends first, getting them smooth and tangle-free; then he systematically moves up until the small brush can run through the entire length of my hair without snagging. And throughout the process, there’s no pain—just the opposite, in fact. The plastic bristles massage my skull with every stroke, and prickles of pleasure run down my spine whenever his warm fingers brush against the sensitive skin of my nape.