Chapter 8
The bass of the club pulsed through Mikhail’s skull, a steady, maddening rhythm that did nothing to drown out the thoughts consuming fam, the stink usual private booth, a glass of whiskey in hd watching the mindless crowd writhe under flashing lights. Women threw themselves at him they perfume claying, their laughter grating. Yet none of them mattered.
It was annoying to the point that he glared at them for them to hush their laughter and scurry that if they’ll piss him off, he’ll waste no time to put some sense into them.
away from him. His glare was enough for them to know
His thoughts were consumed by certain someone.
The blind girl he bought.
Angela.
She had crept into his mind like a slow–burning poison, an infection he couldn’t purge no matter how much he drank. Her defiance, her fear, the way she trembled under his touch yet held her chin high–she was a contradiction that tormented him. He could still feel the ghost of her lips against his thume the way her breath had hitched when he pulled her closer at breakfast. The thought alone sent a wave of frustration surging through him.
“Another drink, Mr. Volkov?” a sultry voice purred beside him.
Mikhail barely spared the woman a glance. Blonde. Beautiful. Forgettable.
“No.” He grumbled.
He was annoyed by Angela’s thoughts raking through his mind.
That blond hesitated, but his sharp tone made her retreat. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. What was happening to him? He had never been this preoccupied with anyone before. No woman had ever occupied his thoughts like this. No woman had ever made him restless, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with something darker, something possessive.
Fuck this.
He downed the rest of his whiskey in one go and stood, ignoring the questioning looks from his men. He needed to get out of here. Needed to see her. To remind himself that she was real.
By the time he reached the mansion, the alcohol buzzed through his system, dulling the edges of his control. He was supposed to go to his own room. Supposed to sleep off this unwanted obsession.
But his feet carried him somewhere else.
To her.
Angela stirred at the faint creak of her door. At first, she thought it was a dream–another nightmare of faceless men dragging her onto a stage, of chains clinking as she was displayed like an object. But the heavy scent of whiskey and something unmistakably Mikhail filled the air, snapping her into reality.
Fear clawed its way up her throat.
She sat up abruptly, her breaths coming in short gasps. “Who’s there?”
For a couple of seconds there was dark cold silence that for a moment she felt that she was alone in the room but she asked again.
“Who’s there?” This time her voice was small and fearful.
A low chuckle, dark and amused. “Who else?
She could recognize that deep voice anywhere.
Chapter 8
Mikhall.
Angela’s pulse thundered. She gripped the sheets, her blind eyes wide though they saw nothing. “W… What are you doing in my room. Me volkenr stammered.
A pause followed by his slurred words. “You tell me.” He rumbled and by the slurred to e she realized something.
“You’re drunk.”
“And you’re awake,” he countered smoothly, the door clicking shut behind him. Her heart skyrocketed when she heard him locking the door, it’s clicking noise filled the room like a haunting curse.
“W… Why are you locking the door?” Her voice was small and scared but she got no response from him.
He was closer now. She could feel it. His presence was oppressive, suffocating. Heat radiated from him, and the unmistakable sound of his footsteps sent chills racing down her spine.
She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be here.”
A pause. Then, the rustle of fabric as he moved even closer. “And yet, here I am.”
The bed dipped. Angela flinched violently, her breath catching as she felt the mattress shift under his weight. He was sitting at the edge of her bed. Too close. Too near. The scent of whiskey and raw masculinity invaded her senses, making her dizzy.
“What do you want?” she whispered, hating how weak her voice sounded.
Mikhail exhaled slowly, and she could feel the heat of his breath ghosting over her skin. “I don’t fucking know.”
That admission sent a different kind of fear through her. He was always in control. Always calculated. But now…
Now, he sounded lost.
Her hands clenched the sheets tighter. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as the silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then-
A touch. The barest brush of his fingers against her wrist. She jerked away instinctively, but his grip tightened, his large hand wrapping around her delicate wrist with ease.
“You consume me, Angela,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, raw. “‘don’t like it.”
Angela’s stomach twisted. He was unpredictable, dangerous. A man who took what he wanted without remorse. And now, in his drunken state, she had no idea what he might do next.
“Mikhail,” she said cautiously, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her chest. “Let me go.”
His fingers loosened, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t want to.”
Her breath hitched. “You have to.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You think you can command me, little angel?”
Her lower lip trembled. “I think you’re better than this.”
That made him still.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a heavy sigh, he released her wrist completely and stood. The bed shifted as his weight disappeared, but the air remained thick with his presence.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he muttered. The sound of his footsteps receded, followed by the door creaking open.
Chapter 8
Angela’s body remained rigid until she heard the door shut behind
against
the sheets.
She had survived another night.
But for
how much
longer?
him. Only
then
did she
collapse
onto the bed, gasping for air as
her hands
frambled
