Russian Roulette

Prologue

                    

Copyright © TaliahEvans ™ 2020

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. This story is published subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced or retransmitted in whole or in part, in any manner, without the written consent of the copyright holder, and any infringement of this is a violation of copyright law.

Portions of this book are works of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved ® TaliahEvans™

PROLOGUE

Before I think twice, my right palm makes contact with his cheek. The force of the impact is stronger than anticipated, my hand feels like a flame, while my breathing continues to intensify. However, as soon as the adrenaline rushes through my body and the last drop of anger evaporates, I realize what I just did.

I slapped him. I just lifted my palm and slapped him hard and with anger, leaving a reddish trace on his face that was always so expressionless. As much as an accomplishment it represents for me, his now enraged face rings an alarm in my mind, one that's meant to wake me up to reality.

Fear. No. Fear is too little said. Pure horror seizes my whole being and I wake up from shock under his gaze devoid of life and any trace of compassion. Allowing my instinct to take the lead, I open the door behind me and completely block my rational thinking as my legs run away from him. Away from the deadly threat.

I catch my breath as soon as my strength comes out of my chest, while the need for survival encourages me to add as much space between us as possible. Brunette and tangled strands sway viciously in all directions, my legs threaten to give up while the dark, silent corridor is flooded by the sounds of my desperate breathing.

My room. I have to get to my room and barricade the door, hoping he won't be nervous enough to tear it down. I know that if he does, I will be totally hopeless and defenseless. To scream would be one big mistake considering I am in his huge mansion, surrounded only by his gorillas who wouldn't hesitate to point a gun at me again, if they had the chance.

I climb up the massive stairs with the speed of a madwoman, counting the seconds until I reach the safety of my room. I'm defenseless in front of a cold-blooded beast, most likely ready to bring me to an end.

A lamb in a lion's cage during dinner time. That's the best way to describe the situation we're in at the moment. But then again, was there ever a time when it was different? What's fascinating is how the victim continues to have life expectancy until the last moments, believing the lion may not be that hungry. But in my case, the lion is furious, craving for revenge.

I feel my heart pumping as I try to reach an inhuman speed. I force my weak legs to take the last steps to the closed door that separates me from shelter, the only thing that can put a stop to the man's unleashed volcanic temper. But let's be serious, what are the chances of escaping? I whimper in pain as his fingers clench violently around my arm. I sigh in alarm and shudder when he forces me to turn around, vehemently sticking my body to his chest.

"Get your hands off me!" I shouted exasperated, punching alarmed in the air, praying I hit him too. But his broad body is impossible to shake.

As I said before, a ruthlessly unjust struggle. He grabs both of my hands in his far too tight grip and opens the door by pushing me violently into it. I continue to fight agitated as he effortlessly pulls me toward the throne bed in the middle of the room. He didn't even bother to turn on the light. Why would he do it? He is a monster and monsters don't even need light to execute their crimes. I try desperately to get my hands out of his and push my heels deep into the carpet fabric, determined not to let him bend me without a fierce fight.

He growled in anger at my stubbornness and wasted no time trying to force further. I release a sharp scream when I feel my body lifted up in the air, starting to hit with my legs and putting all my remaining force into the blows. My body falls on the mattress with a muffled sound and I manage to turn around and try my best to roll myself out of bed. But every movement is completely useless, because I can barely breathe when my body is completely immobilized by his. I shout again, trying to free my hands, forcing my back to rise from the bed despite his weight that presses me.

"Get off!Don't you dare touch me!"

He remains as calm and unassuming as ever. He doesn't shout, doesn't use his force to make me stop, and doesn't even bother to disturb his unchanged expression. That's probably the main reason I hate him so much. His way of never losing his patience is what pushes me to the edges of rationality. It manages to lead me to nothing else than pure madness.

"Damn it, go fuck yourself! I hate you! I hate you!" I keep repeating it while my whimpers only become weaker and weaker, my eyes involuntarily filled with tears.

Having no energy to keep my tone firm anymore, my body relaxes resigned, accepting the inevitable defeat. My breathing is still accelerated, my chest heaving violently in short inspirations and exhalations. Cold tears brought redness to my crying eyes, I am sure of it, but at least they stopped flowing. Right now I probably look like a crack addict. I wish to see his face but my gaze is blurred. The grips around my hands have become gentler, but he still keeps my body prisoner under his. My eyelids glide shut, leaving myself drawing mentally in my own misery.

I can not restrain the treacherous whining, which escapes from my mouth when the warm skin of his palm rests on my cheek, wiping the tears with the tips of his fingers. Is this real? Is he real? I open my eyes again, but this time I can clearly distinguish his perfect features in the darkness of the room.

How can something so beautiful be so evil?

I feel my wrists slowly released from the grips and the numbness encompasses me in the places where he was pushing his fingers just moments ago. I don't know why, but I find myself taking a deep breath and then exhaling with relief.

As if I could really feel relief in his presence. As if I didn't hate him with all my being. As if I forgot why I was here, in this situation.

I look deeply in his eyes, trying desperately to find in them a trace of humanity, of compassion, but all I see is the pure coldness that characterizes him perfectly. His fingers slide slowly along my cheek, drawing hot lines down to my open and trembling lips.

Out of my own desire, my eyes suddenly close when his thumb outlines with an unnatural curiosity my lower lip. I don't know if this is proof that I have finally lost my mind, but the feeling is far too captivating for my mind to dwell on anything else. A muffled moan escapes my mouth when the electrifying touch of his lips on my throat spurts shivers down my spine.

So overwhelming and yet so gentle.

My head moves automatically to give him more access, obtaining a grunt from the one who sends my body in an euphoric state. The weakness finally compels my eyes to reopen, meeting a feeling in his pupils that mirrors mine.

Desire.

Pure desire that accelerates my pulse and sets my whole body on fire.

As an anticipatory effect, I moisten my lips without detaching my gaze from his. His piercing eyes follow the movement with interest, then returning to dig deep into my troubled eyes. At this point, I am not even trying to deny the obvious.

The way my heart beats faster when he is present.

The way his features are constantly present in my thoughts.

This abnormal need of mine to find out what's hidden behind these beautiful eyes.

But none of these things matter.

It doesn't matter that he looks at me as if he is about to devour me just by looking, it doesn't matter that I'm tempted to surround his neck with my thin fingers and press until the air leaves his lungs, making him feel exactly how I feel when he looks at me. Like I am grasping for air. No. The only thing that matters is the moment when our lips merge into an overwhelming and impossible to control kiss. The rest is discord, passion, danger, and possibly a dash of love.