Katarina

Strong hands grab me under the armpits. With a steady grip, he pulls me from under the bed, far enough that my legs straighten.

I get my hands and knees under me, and pull back, trying to escape his grasp.

I know he’s trying to help me, but something in his touch feels…dangerous. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m an unwelcome hitchhiker.

Or maybe it’s the power that rolls off him in waves. I’ve met a lot of powerful men. But none has ever exuded energy like this.

I push back under the bed, my eyes locked with his.

I’m not the sort of women who starts speaking nonsense when I get uncomfortable. In fact, I’m exactly the opposite.

I stare at him with the same intensity he’s looking at me.

“Are you going to come out from under the bed?” He asks, his brows notching up a millimeter.

“No. I’m quite…” I pause just to slow this whole thing down, “cozy under here.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches before he reaches out his hand to me. I stare at it, not sure I want to touch him again. His eyes narrow as he pushes his hand a bit closer. “Take it.”

It’s not a request. And I’ve never been one to avoid a task, no matter how unpleasant.

So, I slide my hand into his, feeling that same pit in my stomach I did before, as he pulls me toward him.

The room is hardly large enough for me to climb out, and he fills most of the empty space between the wall and the door.

But he hooks his arm around my waist, and starts to stand, pulling me with him. My chest crushes to his large frame and my arms automatically come to his broad shoulders, perfectly defined by his fitted dress shirt.

I feel small and grubby in my leggings and tank top. And don’t even get me started on the height difference.

I’m a hair over five feet, eight inches, but he towers over me, a full head taller than I am. I stare up at him, handsome beyond sin, and I can’t shake the feeling…I know him.

Which is ridiculous. I’d remember a man this gorgeous if I’d met him before.

Besides, I don’t know many Brits.

My fiancé, well, ex-fiancé aside. My eyes narrow, even as he eases back to look down at me. “You may as well join me in the main cabin.”

My lips part as I try to decide how to react. Because his ease is completely throwing me. Why isn’t he saying things like, ‘Who are you? Why are you on my flight?’

My tongue darts out to lick my lips as I try to formulate a question to learn…anything.

His eyes lock on my tongue, narrowing, as he continues to hold me against his chest.

It’s not helping me to reason out why he’s not angry or upset or, at the very least, perplexed. “It’s quite comfortable in here,” I say weakly, barely recognizing my own voice. Or my actions. I don’t do meek.

“I insist you join me,” he returns, turning away, pulling me along with him.

I have this urge to grab the door frame, to try to stop my movement, but I ignore it. Life, or maybe just my father, taught me a long time ago, a girl can’t out-muscle a man when he’s decided on a course of action.

We enter the main cabin, where he gestures for me to sit on the built-in bench seat. He takes his place in a captain’s chair, a narrow table separating us, his folded laptop and phone on the surface. “Andrew can help you with your buckles in case there is more turbulence.”

I glare at Andrew. Did he tell on me? Either way, Andrew, the suspected traitor, is not touching me. “I’ll be fine buckling my own seatbelt, thank you.”

I look at the steward who immediately looks down at the floor. My eyes narrow as I assess the slight flush of his cheeks.

It would be easy to think that the turbulence was to blame for my hiding spot being discovered, but my…host, doesn’t seem at all surprised to have found me on the plane.

I slide onto the leather fabric, grabbing the buckles. “My name is Katarina, by the way.”

My host dips his chin in acknowledgment before he sits in the captain’s chair that has a fold-out desk. Sliding out a laptop, he opens it and begins typing.

I stare across the way at him, my lips falling open. That’s it.

No name? No explanation? No questions? Considering I came here uninvited, I’m not sure I’ve a right to demand information, but I’m also completely aware that I am at this man’s mercy.

“Fun fact about me,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows coming to my knees. “Today was my wedding day.”

My mysterious host lifts his head, his gaze swinging to me as he stares me up and down. “Interesting choice of wardrobe.”

Heat fills my cheeks. “I suppose it is customary for runaway brides to be in a wedding dress.”

“Yes.”

My teeth grind together. Nothing? Not a single question about why I ran or who I was marrying? “You married?”

“No.”

“Ever thought about it?” I ask cocking my head as I watch him.

I swear I catch the faintest flicker of emotion before he answers. “Yes.”

I inspect my nails for a moment, the ring flashing up at me from my finger. “Fondly or with deep dread?”

“Katarina,” he rumbles in response. “I have work to do.”

He’s not going to answer. My feathers ruffle, as I consider how to get even the smallest shred of information out of him. “I was perfectly comfortable in the other room. It was you who insisted that I come out here with you.”

His brows lift a fraction of an inch. “And I was perfectly comfortable being on this flight alone.”

“Andrew’s not a person?”

He glowers back. “Andrew understands he needs to remain quiet.”

I snort. Andrew is a snitch. But I stop asking questions, content instead to study the man who is an enigma.

An annoying and rather grumpy enigma.

He begins typing, his hands looking massive hovered over the keyboard. I lean back on the couch, attempting to puzzle out what I know.

Ryker secured this flight for me. A way to escape that wouldn’t be traceable. Andrew hid me. And this man doesn’t seem at all surprised to have an extra passenger.

“Did Ryker tell you I was on this flight?”

“Tell me?” He lifts his head. “No. He didn’t tell me.”

My brow furrows. He didn’t ask me who Ryker was, so clearly, he knows. “Were you aware that he is the man I was supposed to marry.”

“Yes.”

What the actual hell? “Who are you?”

He leans back in his chair, swiveling to face me. His languid pose does little to hide the intensity in his stare. He doesn’t answer.

Despite the fact that I’ve done most of the talking, he is in complete control of this conversation. More than that. He’s in command of the entire situation.

My hands start to shake, but I clasp them to hide the tremor. I draw in a deep gulp of air, and realize my lips are trembling too.

I don’t do this. I don’t let my fear take control. I force my mouth closed, clenching my jaw as I stare back.

“I am…” he drawls low and deep, “the Duke of Grandmont.”

My eyes go wide. Because everything about this is wrong.

Grandmont is the last man I should keep company with.

My father—a gangster born from nothing—prizes designer clothes and fancy homes, but more than anything, he absolutely covets royalty. Grandmont is the exact kind of man my father wished for me to marry.

But worse, and of far more significance, the Duke of Grandmont is Ryker’s eldest brother.

“But why…” I start, sitting back on the couch as I realize that my escape, my rush for freedom, is being heavily chaperoned.

Lord Grandmont says no more as he swivels back toward his computer and begins to work again.

This time, I let the silence fall.

He’s been clear, he’s not giving me anymore information, that I’m wasting my time asking questions.

But that doesn’t stop them from swirling in my head.

Ryker made it seem as though he was putting me on some random plane, that once it landed, I’d be free to take my money and establish my own life.

Is that still the case?

I nip at my lip as I watch the duke work. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I push off the couch.

“Where are you going?” he asks, the clicking of keys ceasing in an instant.

I stop. I’ve been a prisoner before. My father kept us locked in his house for the better part of five years, only letting us out when he dressed us up like dolls and paraded us out in public while we were heavily guarded.

And then, once our brother stole us from our father’s care, he kept us contained in a high-security apartment.

“It’s a plane. There aren’t many places to go,” I say before I turn back toward the bathroom. If he isn’t going to answer my questions, why should I answer his?

He spins the chair around, watching me as I enter the bathroom and close the door. Which means his question was answered. I wrinkle my nose in irritation, wishing I’d been able to give him a better taste of his own medicine.

When I come out two minutes later, he’s still facing me, leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Your Grace,” I give him my most regal nod as I start for my seat once again.

“Miss Ivanov,” he returns, causing the slightest hitch in my step. Of course, he knows my last name. I was supposed to marry his brother.

I settle back down on the couch, clearing my throat. I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking more questions.

He continues to stare, the silence stretching out between us.

“Your sister did just fine today,” he says. “In case you were wondering.” I hear the judgment that laces his voice, the words meant to dig. Does he think I’m a bad person for leaving her in Vegas? Does he want to shake my confidence? Ass.

“I’m sure your brother will make an excellent husband to her,” I quip back, not taking his bait. Why judge me, if Ryker is all that he’s promised to be?

He harrumphs, and I think I might have actually landed a point. But then he cocks his head to the side. “But not to you?”

My mouth twitches down into a frown. “I have no idea.”

“Then why leave?”

I notch my chin. “I don’t think you’ve answered a single one of my questions.”

“Not true. I told you my name.”

I shake my head. “I’m not telling you anything else, until you answer another one of my questions.”

He lets out a dark rumble. “Fine.”

This might be the only question I get so I take a beat, trying to choose wisely. “Why did Ryker send me with you?”

“Because I asked him to do so.”

I blink back my surprise, his answer completely throwing me. “What? Why?”

“That’s two more questions and it’s my turn. Why leave Vegas?”

“Because…” I could tell him any number of reasons. Because I’ve been a prisoner my whole life and I didn’t want to be trapped in a marriage. Or I could tell him that Sasha needs protection way more than myself. Both are accurate. But I settle for the deepest truth, the darkest reason. “I’ve got a score to settle.”

He looks at me, his eyes searching my face as he considers my words. And then he murmurs. “Interesting.”

“Why is that?” I ask, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end as I do.

“Because,” he gives me a cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got a score to settle too.”

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