CLAIMED BY THE RUSSIAN TYRANT

5

Alexei cursed under his breath as vomit ruined his custom fur coat. He turned to glare at Anastasia; she was spiraling, her body racked with shivers as she muttered unintelligible words.

“Give her to me, Boss. Gavin’s scouting the perimeter for witnesses.” Xander, his most trusted man and oldest friend, reached forward to take the shivering bundle from him.

Alexei shucked the coat and tossed it onto the dirt, wondering what kind of woman Anastasia really was. Her father certainly hadn’t hesitated to sign those papers—that much was for sure.

He turned back to find Xander struggling. Anastasia had found her second wind; she was frantic now, sobbing out Bible verses and calling on every deity she knew. As Alexei reached for her, she backflipped off Xander’s shoulders and landed precariously on her feet.

That agility is going to be an issue, Alexei thought.

Gavin returned from his sweep and headed for the idling car.

“Don’t touch me! How could you…” Anastasia’s gaze snagged on the dead body. She choked, jerking her head away. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

“My men and I don’t have time for this, little girl,” Alexei murmured coldly. “Get a grip on yourself and get in the car.”

Anastasia’s eyes flashed with defiance. Alexei signaled for Xander to circle behind her, just in case she tried another stunt. She balled her fists, her jaw set tight, but she didn’t resist. He seized her arm and hauled her like a ragdoll into the backseat.

Xander climbed in beside Gavin, and they sped away.

“You left my car behind,” she whispered.

“You won’t be needing that,” Alexei said simply, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“What do you mean?”

Alexei said nothing.

Anastasia stared at Alexei’s bearded profile with a deep, angry frown. Who did he think he was anyway? She wanted to run, but she felt hollow and exhausted, and so badly in need of a shower to wash the dirt and blood of her skin and to scrub the taste of bile from her tongue.

The Morozov Estate came into view hours later. A massive wall of red stone and floodlights. Now that her mind was clear, she noticed a few of the guards standing around, watching her with interest. No doubt laughing at my misfortune, she thought bitterly.

Ignoring their looks, she followed Alexei up the stairs, trying and failing to keep her eyes away from his toned, tattooed back. She remembered when he took his shirt off after she threw up on him. It had been so difficult to look away. Alexei was indeed a beast, with the body to match. How could a human have such a perfect physique yet refuse to shave his beard?

You’re disgusting, Anastasia, a voice in her head shouted. You just witnessed this man kill somebody, and all you’re thinking about is his body?

She shook her head in disbelief, pushing the thought aside as they stepped into a room. Alexei shut the door behind her and walked further into the room, grabbing a towel and tossing it to her.

“Go take a shower and come back downstairs. Ask any of my men to show you to my office,” Alexei ordered.

She noticed then that he looked pissed. As much as she’d love to sink her fist into his gut, she relented, silently accepted the towel, and walked into the lavish bathroom. It was almost identical to the one she had at her father’s house, except five times larger and ironically, without any windows.

Thinking of her father made her jaw tighten. To think she had done everything to impress that heartless man while growing up: getting perfect grades, staying fit, being the perfect daughter who knew exactly what to say when the media pointed cameras at them, and learning more than seven languages in twenty-one years. Yet here she was, sold to a murderer waiting for her in his study.

Could life get any worse?

Discarding her torn dress, her nose wrinkled at the smell of blood, dirt, and vomit. The thought of how she had openly thrown up on Alexei sent a surge of embarrassment to her cheeks.

Shuddering, she grabbed the soap and lathered her body, making sure to scrub until her skin was as pink as a newborn’s. She didn’t want to leave the shower, but she had no choice. She couldn’t make a phone call because he had seized her phone in the car.

A soft cotton shirt, obviously male and three times too large, was waiting for her on the bed when she cae out, wrapped in a towel. No underwear or pants. The panties she had worn with her dress were a no-go. Swallowing her embarrassment, she wore the shirt—noticing the smell of cigarettes and leather on the fabric—and slowly made her way down the stairs, tugging at the hem to keep it from exposing her buttocks.

Alexei was lounging in his lavish study, his signature robe in place, as she entered.

“I knew we’d meet again, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Anastasia snapped.

“Oh, you prefer ‘w***e’?”

“I prefer neither! Why are you doing this?” A glance at the door proved escape was fruitless; Xander—a tall, handsome, evil-looking creature—was standing guard, currently holding her phone.

“Because I want to f**k you.” The bluntness of his words shouldn't have shocked her, but it did.

“I didn't accept your offer!”

“Is this the thanks I get for helping your family? Your mother behaved more kindly than you.”

The thought of her hypocritical mother made tears pool in her eyes. But she refused to cry in front of this beast. “I’m not my mother!”

“And yet here you are, standing in my house, wearing my clothes because of them.” He pointed out, making her feel even more guilty for her stupidity.

“How did your men know where to find me?” she asked.

“The building where you went to inquire about a certain property? That’s mine.”

Of course it was, she thought bitterly.

“I want to go home!”

He hummed, twirling a strand of his bushy beard. “You can’t leave my house until your family pays back all the money I just loaned them.”

“What?!” she exclaimed. He couldn’t possibly keep her against her will. “And if they never pay it back? I’ll live with you until the day I die?”

He just smirked. She watched him with newfound hatred as he moved toward the minibar. He returned with a bottle of vodka, blue eyes twinkling as he glanced down at her.

“Do you drink?”

“I’m a dancer, Mr. Morozov! I don’t drink damaging substances,” she snapped.

He merely chuckled, placing a glass in front of her anyway. A few minutes of uncomfortable silence went by, with him just watching her in a challenging way that made her feel exposed and squeamish. She couldn't take it anymore. Everything was just too much, and quite frankly, she was f****d either way. She needed courage for what she wanted to suggest.

She leaned forward, grabbed the glass, and downed the burning liquid. Without stopping to take a breath, she finished it and slammed the glass onto the table.

“I will only accept marriage,” she said finally.

Alexei paused mid-drink. “Marriage?” He sounded genuinely confused, like she just spoke another language different from Russian.

“I will only sleep with you as your bride. I’m not a cheap woman!”

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that rattled her bones. “Then you’ll have to shoot me.”

“What?”

Alexei leaned back, watching her for a heartbeat, then suddenly reached into his waistband. The metallic thud of his handgun hitting the desk between them echoing in the quiet room.

“There,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. “Over my dead body will I ever marry you… or anyone, for that matter. So you’ll have to pull the trigger.”

She glanced at the shiny, smooth metal, her heart thudding in her chest. It couldn’t possibly be loaded, could it? He was studying her as if she were an amusement park toy. Did he think she wouldn’t do it? She’d learned to shoot with her sister when she was seven, but that had been long ago. And what if she actually killed him?

“I can't do it. I’m not a murderer like you," Anastasia said, shoulders sagging.

To her surprise, Alexei picked up the gun and pointed it at her. Then, he clicked the trigger.

Click.

“Boom,” he mouthed. She flinched. “You really think I'd give you a loaded gun, sweetheart?”

“I despise you!” she seethed.

He merely shrugged, taking a sip of his vile tasting vodka. “I despise your father, too. So how about you come here and wrap that pretty little mouth around my d**k?”