Page 68 of Betrayal and Vows

The command in his voice almost breaks me. I can see how much he hates this, how much it's costing him to see me like this. The tears I've been holding back all evening threaten to spill over.

"I can't," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Mikhail demands it."

The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Anton's face goes deadly still. He curses in Russian, a string of words so vicious my cheeks flush. His eyes burn with a fury that makes me take a step back.

“I have to go,” I whisper. “I’m already late.”

He says nothing.

He walks behind me and I hate that he can probably see my ass cheeks. I don’t mind him seeing my body, but not like this.

Not when I know it’s killing him.

I try not to tug at the hem as I walk into the dining room.

I feel all eyes on me.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone.

The table is long and gleaming. Baccarat crystal reflects the chandelier’s light making the stark-white table linens look like there are rainbows. My father is already seated; his hand wrapped around a tumbler and well on his way to being drunk.

Vadim sits at the head. And Mikhail is lounging like a bored wolf, flicking ash into a cut-glass tray. The empty seat beside him is for me.

I don’t want to sit down.

Mikhail looks up and the sneer makes my stomach turn. He loves that he's humiliating me. The satisfaction in his green eyes is unmistakable. He's enjoying every second of my discomfort.

I refuse to let him see how mortified I am.

I lift my chin and force my spine straight. If he wants a show, I'll give him one. Just not the one he expects.

Because of the table positioning, I have to walk the entire length of the table to my seat at the head next to Mikhail. It's a gauntlet designed to display his prize. Every step feels like an eternity.

The whispers start immediately.

"Look at what she's wearing..."

"Shameless."

"If I had a body like that..."

I hear them all. Feel the stares burning into my skin. The women hate me—some because they're jealous, others because they pity me. The men want me. Their eyes crawl over every exposed inch like hands I can't slap away.

My heels click against the marble floor with each measured step. I don't hurry. I don't cower. I move like a queen walking to her throne, even though I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter.

I hear someone actually gasp when I pass. Good. Let them be scandalized. At least they're not the ones wearing this humiliation.

Mikhail doesn’t rise when I reach my seat.

One of the servants quickly pulls out my chair. It takes a little maneuvering to sit down without flashing the table.

Again, I suspect that was Mikhail’s plan.

Dinner gets underway.

I’m ignored.