Page 17 of Twisted Prince
Green eyes narrow into a catlike glare as he scans the dirty, cluttered room, his gun raised, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. Then his gaze sweeps across the girls chained, practically naked, and sitting on the floor. He straightens to his full height, unfolding from the slinking crouch that tells me none of Mikhail’s men know he’s here.
And though his face is a mask of calm apathy, I can see the fury blazing in his expressive eyes. They’re the one part of Gleb that gives me a window into his true feelings, and after months of watching him closely, I’ve come to rely on them to tell me what his carefully composed demeanor won’t.
“They’re in here,” he calls softly, his low, smooth voice like a salve to my ragged nerves.
Then his eyes find mine, and the relief in them makes my heart skip a beat.
Is that because he found me? Or does his concern extend equally to all the girls? I know how desperately he hated failing the girls Mikhail kidnapped from one of Pyotr’s clubs. So, I try not to read too far into the intensity of his emotion now.
But as he strides across the room toward us, his lithe and entirely silent steps make my pulse flutter.
The girl to my right whimpers, cringing away from him because she doesn’t know any better. I don’t have time to put her at ease before Gleb settles into a crouch before me. And as he focuses his attention solely on me, the oxygen vanishes from my lungs.
“You’re okay?” he murmurs, the slight Russian accent that laces his words, making him that much more dangerously attractive. He poses it as a question, his gaze searching my face carefully before tracing down the lines of my body.
And his examination is so different from the lewd, lustful violation of Captain Zmeya and his men. Gleb just sees everything, reading situations without effort, and right now, he’s checking to make sure no one’s laid a hand on me.
It doesn’t feel invasive as he takes in my exposed flesh or the threadbare state of my plain bra and panties. And his eyes don’t linger on my breasts. Instead, they track back up to my throat, where Zmeya choked me.
Rigid tension ripples across his shoulders, stiffening his spine, and he doesn’t touch me. Though, strangely, I yearn for it. Instead, he rises gracefully from his crouch as Lev and Denka enter the room, guns drawn but already lowered.
“We’re getting you girls out of here,” Gleb says, his eyes sweeping across the room.
Never one to waste words, he and his men silently get to work picking the locks on the cuffs and padlocks that confine us.
“How did you find us?” I ask, questions burning on the tip of my tongue.
Gleb glances at me momentarily before focusing on his task once again. A second later, the handcuffs spring open, releasing Tif from her position on the end of our linked chain. “You have clothes?” he asks.
She nods. “I think they piled them all back here.” She points to the far side of the bed.
He gives a curt nod. “Get dressed, then help the other girls.”
She scrambles off the floor, obeying without question as Gleb turns to free me next.
“Mikhail struck one of Pyotr’s clubs to draw me away while you girls were taken. So when we got word that he’d flow to his property Upstate, I thought he might intend to put you in one of his VIP auctions,” he says evenly.
And because his eyes are focused on my wrists connected at the base of my spine, I can’t read his emotions. His hands are shockingly gentle compared to the men who have handled me for the past few days, and it makes my stomach quiver.
His skin brushes against mine, raising goosebumps in its wake, and a shiver races up my spine. He seems to take that as a bad sign because he seems even more careful not to touch me from that point on.
“Were you responsible for the commotion at the main house tonight?” I ask to distract myself from the ridiculous disappointment that settles in my stomach.
“Yes.”
The curt answer seems to be all I’m going to get, so I keep working my way down my list of questions.
“Were you responsible for the gunfire a few days ago? One of Mikhail’s men said the Veles were all dead…” My voice trails off, and my handcuffs spring open, releasing me.
I almost groan with relief as I bring my hands before me and massage my throbbing wrists.
“That was us, yes,” he says, his voice stone-cold. “Now, no more questions. Get dressed. It’s going to be a cold sprint to the cars.”
I do as he says, recognizing the urgency in the way he and his men work down the line of girls. Whatever they did up at the main house has probably only given us a narrow window of time.
Scrambling to sort through the pile of clothes, I pull mine on, then help the girl who was chained beside me get dressed.
“Stay low and stay quiet,” Gleb instructs once we’re all dressed and ready.
