Page 5 of Twisted Proposal

My father and brother both erupted into a vicious string of curses which were quickly silenced by this man's icy glare. The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees with that single look.

He kept his focus on them as he spoke to me. "Do they often take their anger out on you?"

The air in my lungs seized as my throat constricted. My pulse hammered like a caged animal desperate for escape.

This conversation had already gone way too far.

Lowering my head, I focused on my filthy socks and didn’t respond.

"I'll take that as a yes." His hand cupped my chin as he forced my face up to meet his hard gaze. His fingers were surprisingly gentle against my bruised skin, but there was nothing gentle in his eyes. "Do you know what your father does for a living?"

I swallowed. "Please don't make me answer that."

He focused on my eyes before his gaze slipped to my mouth.

Without thinking, the tip of my tongue slid between my lips, wetting them.

He tracked the movement, then raised an eyebrow before leaning in closer, his breath brushing my cheek. The scent of expensive cologne and something inherently masculine, wrapped around me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."

My eyes filled with tears. They burned hot and unwelcome, blurring the edges of his face. This was a nightmare. "He's a criminal."

He nodded for a second, like he was considering my words. "And do you know who I am?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This kind of thing never went well for the witness. My only hope was to frame this so I appeared useful and maybe he would show me mercy.

I answered honestly. "Only that my father thinks he can use you. A man named Solovyov sent him to make a deal. He says it was the perfect time to take advantage of your family."

"Traitorous bitch!" my father yelled as he lunged at me. Spittle flew from his mouth, his face contorted into a mask of hate I'd seen a thousand times before. The man in the black-on-black suit who'd been standing behind his chair pistol-whipped the back of his head, knocking him to his knees.

“My name is Artem Ivanov. You may call me Artem."

"Viktoria," I said, extending the same courtesy to him.

He offered me his hand, a gesture he refused my father.

Wincing from a sharp pain in my ribs as I stood, I clasped his hand.

His was firm and strong, but he didn't squeeze my fingers like so many men usually did.

At my show of pain, his face darkened.

Something lethal flickered in his eyes, there and gone in an instant. Without a word, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and held it for me to slip my arms into, which would not be possible with my injured shoulder.

I shook my head. "That's okay. I don’t need it.”

My heart sped up when he circled around behind me. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, my body instinctively bracing for pain. I resisted the urge to shift away.

He whispered close to my ear. "Again, I must insist."

I cleared my throat as I wrapped my right hand around my left arm. "I can't move my arm. I think my shoulder is dislocated."

As the spike of adrenaline from being kidnapped started to wane, the pulsing pain had set in. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony through my joint, the pain so intense my vision swam with black spots. I struggled to stay alert to what was happening around me when all I wanted to do was pass out.

Artem cursed, soft and low.

He stormed across the room and said something in rapid Russian. His voice was controlled but razor-sharp, slicing through the cabin's musty air.