Mikhail

11

"He already has, Natalia," I heard the grin his low tone and spun around with a heated glare, "who do you think told him you were held here?"

"You would be crazy to lay a finger on him," I seethed murderously, threat laced around each word.

I watched with increasing rage as he chuckled, darkened eyed taking me in shamelessly. My glare roughened and I pulled the remnants of my shirt to cover my chest, not wanting him to make me feel so small and vulnerable.

"Be good and he won't die," he suggested lowly, and I wanted to wipe away his infuriatingly arousing grin away with my fist, "with Gold and Julio dead, Mogilevich needs Wellesley as an alliance. You're the bait."

"I'll be long gone before he gets here," I informed the smug man, whose brows then raised and towering frame neared me intimidatingly. I stood my ground and narrowed my glare up at him once his confident strides stopped right in front of me.

"With a fractured rib? I doubt it," his tone lowered, and an involuntary shiver of pleasure ran down my spine at the sound of his voice. His grin turned knowing, and I itched to hit him.

"How did you do it?" I then wondered, continuing to stand my ground instead of retreating away from him. I dodged his hand that raised to brush a piece of my hair behind my ear. "Kill them, I mean."

"Ricin," he disclosed, leaning inappropriately close.

I couldn't help but laugh, "only women use poison."

"Exactly," Mikhail agreed, and my amusement faded instantly.

He had truly planned it from the start to make it seem like I had been the one to kill them. If I hadn't been injured at that moment, I would've pounced on him and dug my nails into his stupid face for reasons other than the unwelcome sexual desire coursing through my veins because of and for him.

"Why won't you leave me be?" I hissed, furious at him coming into the picture and virtually ruining everything. Missions failed, and to top it off my father would be forced to make an alliance with our greatest enemy.

"Why should I?" His sinful hand gripped a hold of my chin that then tightened painfully to prevent me from pulling away, "you don't want me to."

"I won't miss next time," I promised feebly, referring to the shot I had taken in the red room, both of us surely thinking back to it and wondering what indeed had happened.

"I don't believe you, sweetheart," his tone lowered impossibly, darkened eyes moving to my lips hungrily.

I froze, stuttering out something incoherent while desperately fighting against the heat pooling in my lower stomach. His hand loosened its grip on my chin and trailed to cup my jaw, aware of my feet growing too heavy to move against the wooden floor.

I stared at him, lost for words. The closer his lips managed, the more his gaze shone with smug amusement. I had never despised someone as much as I now did him, but still craved for his lips to meet mine.

"Stop calling me that," I tried, voice barely above an unconvincing whisper.

"Ask me nicely," his intoxicating lips brushed against mine, and my eyes fluttered shut with a silent sigh.

I was screaming at my inner self to hit him, push him, or just simply step away, but it was all in vain. My body lit up at his touch, and I hated myself more than anything for letting it happen and actually enjoying it.

"Say it," he grunted out the order roughly, snapping me out of my contradicting thoughts.

"Say what?" I attempted to lean back, but the pain in my chest and his hand moving to cup the back of my neck possessively stopped me from making it far enough.