VLAD (The V Games #1)(30)

“Because I’d had enough of entertaining,” Diana says, looking warily at the door behind me.

“No one saw me come in here, and we are to be married,” I assure her, hoping to soothe her worries as I place my hands on her bare arms and guide her over to the bed. I sit and gently maneuver her between my legs. Taking my hands from her, I study her form, from her toes, toned calves, thicker thighs, and then towel.

Reaching up, I touch the fabric she clutches onto like it’s a raft and she’s drowning.

“Let go,” I order.

She swallows deep, her lips twitching in desperation to defy me. But I stare her right in the eye. Not dropping it now would be to lose.

Diana is a winner like me.

She releases the towel, and it pools at her feet. Her body is exactly what I expected. The clothes she wears each day display the curves beneath them. Not much is hidden from the imagination. Her hips are round, dipping into a small waist and curving up to accommodate her large breasts. They sit heavy and full, the darker nipples peaking with the chill in the air.

“Turn around,” I order.

Her defiance shows itself in her tense jaw. With flushed cheeks, she bends down and retrieves her towel. “I’m not a toy or yours to command, Vlad. You know I want to wait for our wedding night.” She moves toward the bedroom door and flicks the lock, locking us inside.

“Are you a virgin?” I ask outright.

She rests her head on the door for a few silent beats, then turns. The businesswoman mask is in place. “If I wasn’t, would we be here?”

That would depend on how many lovers she’s taken to her bed, but a virgin is rare these days in women of her age, no matter how under the thumb and restricted her options were.

Her father believes her to be, and a virgin is appealing to any man. He would be a liar if he said otherwise. To explore a woman who’s never been touched is like finding a treasure map. Irina is such a thing, and I want to watch her bloom under my hand. To coax all kinds of sounds from her lips. To watch her open up like a rose on a hot summer’s day is a prize that is so often wasted.

“Vlad.” Diana summons me back to reality. “Would it matter to you?”

“Tell me about Veniamin,” I demand, ignoring her question.

She’s taken back by my line of questioning, confusion wrinkling her forehead. “What about him?”

“Have you made advances toward him in the past?”

“Is this an interrogation?” she snaps. “No, Vlad, I’ve never made advances toward Veniamin. Is that what he’s told you?” She paces the floor in front of me, then stops abruptly, breaking into a surprised laugh. “Oh my God, did he tell you we kissed? Is that what this is all about?”

“You kissed?” I hiss, rising to my feet. “You kissed Veniamin?”

“Years ago, Vlad, when we were younger. It was because of Vika pestering him all the time. We did it so she would leave him alone. It was nothing. And for the record, she didn’t leave him alone.”

Vika, the little snake, worming her way into my mind and polluting it with her venom again.

“Are you a virgin?” I ask again.

She huffs out an exasperated breath, and snaps. “Yes, Vlad, I’m a virgin. Happy?”

Yes.

“It wouldn’t have been a deal breaker,” I say, moving past her.

Lies.

It most certainly could have been a deal breaker.

I need someone’s utmost loyalties, in and out of the bedroom.

I lean down and peck a chaste kiss to her lips, then I unlatch the lock and open the door. Anton is standing directly outside, staring at me with a look of surprise.

“Sorry, sir,” he utters. “I was just coming to check to see if Miss Volkov retired for the evening so I could retire as well.”

“She has,” I tell him, watching his eyes flit over my shoulder, knowing what he’s seeing.

“Right,” he grunts.

And with that, I close her door and hunt down Vika.





Bright.

It’s too bright in here.

There’s a marching band inside my head. I balk when my hand skims my bare stomach. Bolting upright, I observe the room and my near nakedness. I frown when I see I have one shoe still on. Rubbing my eyes, I think back to last night, but draw a blank. I remember dinner and then…nothing.

God, I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of all those people.

Scooting to the end of the bed, I notice material littering the floor and I pick up a strand. My dress from last night.

Why would I cut it up?

There’s a light tap on the bedroom door and I quickly scan the room for my robe. It’s slung over the chair where I left it the evening before. The door is closed, and it makes my nerves ricochet inside my skin.

I hate the door being closed.

I have this reoccurring nightmare of a man coming into my room when I was ten, locking my door, and climbing into my bed. His hand, real as the day lighting this room. I can feel the heat, the hairs on his arm, as he snaked its way inside my underwear.

Diana, at sixteen, was also in my dream—she’d fallen asleep in my reading chair after binge reading the Twilight saga with me. Her presence startled him, and he retreated from my room, like a creeping shadow. The dream is still so vivid, I’m not sure whether it really happened or was just that—a dream. A very bad dream.