Page 116 of Wicked Proposal

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over.”

His words sink like stones in my gut. I try to speak, but the lump in my throat won’t budge, won’t let me.

Instead, I break out in a cold sweat, palms clammy and slick even as I wipe them on my dress.

Yulian’s hand grabs mine. His warmth lets me breathe again, but it also anchors me, and right now, I don’t want that. I’ve fallen prey to an old terror, one I never fully learned to fight, only outrun.

But now I’m stuck in place, and all I can feel is Brad’s dark eyes on me, glinting with cruel amusement.

Brad’s presence, inching closer into my personal space.

Brad’s mocking tone, slithering around me like a snake, dripping with venom and promise.

Brad’s claim, all over again.

“Finally.” Brad smirks, pure self-satisfaction and smug entitlement. His crisp white suit crinkles as he steps closer. It’s his signature color, even off the altar. “I’ve got you now. Be a good girl and come with me, and no one’s going to get hurt.”

I’m thrust back into the body of the little girl I was five years ago. Too young to know what was good for her. Too lovestruck to recognize the monster who held her by the throat.

He’s back. He came to get me. I’ll never be free.

I’ll never?—

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” It’s Yulian’s voice, snapping me out of it. Yulian’s dark, deep rumble, cold as Siberia and dangerous as frostbite. “You’re in my house, Baldwin.Idecide who gets hurt.”

Finally, Brad’s eyes flick to Yulian. Bored, annoyed—like he’s just another obstacle on the road to his undisputed victory. “Is that how you talk to all your guests, Lozhkin?”

“You’re not a guest,” he snarls. “You’re a pest.”

“Really?” Brad pulls a sleek, black letter from his breast pocket. “And here I thought your invitation was an olive branch.”

The word “invitation” lands straight on Yulian’s nerves. I can feel his grip twitching with barely-suppressed anger.

“A secretarial mistake,” he growls. “Surely, you couldn’t think I’d want you here.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, tossing the invitation on the floor. His eyes veer to me. “But someone else does. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

My hands start shaking. Or maybe they’ve been doing that all along, and I’m only now noticing. I have no idea. All I know is what I heard, and what it’s doing to me.

Those two words—sweet thing—keep echoing in my panicked mind, sending it further into a tailspin. Reminding me of all the other times he’s said them.

You know you want it, sweet thing.

C’mon, sweet thing. Don’t make me hurt you.

You’re mine, sweet thing. All mine, forever.

He reaches for me. Like that night in the church. Like countless nights before.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for it?—

But his touch never comes.

When I open my eyes again, Yulian’s hand is wrapped firmly around Brad’s wrist. I can see Brad’s fingers turning pale, the blood flow cut off.

“This again?” asks Brad, masking his fear behind disgust.

“I’ll give you a choice,” Yulian says icily. “You can leave here on your own two legs, or you can leave in a body bag. Your call.”