"What do you mean, do I want to get married?" I laugh, awkward and breathless, stepping back even as my body trembles.
"It’s a question," he says, stalking toward me. I keep retreating, but he doesn’t stop, crowding me toward the bed. "It has two answers. I only need one. Not all this talk."
"Is this a proposal?" I ask, skeptical. Because it sounds more like a demand.
"Isn’t that how you do it?" His eyes flick briefly to the side. He grabs a black book from the nightstand and slips it inside his shirt. "I don’t have much time, little bunny. Yes or no?"
I shake my head, not to refuse, just to keep myself grounded. "I don’t even know you," I say, blinking hard, trying to break through the spell.
"You got to know me last night, Zayka," he murmurs, calling me something in Russian that mak
