Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Or maybe I was just a coward.
Because the truth wasn’t just ugly. It was damning.
Veronika was dead, and I had no one to blame but myself.
I never fought for her. Never fought for our marriage. Over and over, I told myself it was just a contract, a means to an end. She didn’t want to be a wife, didn’t want to warm my bed, didn’t want to play the role the world expected of her.
And I let her go. Gave her freedom as if it were some kind of gift instead of a death sentence, because according to the bratva code, she’d no longer be considered under my protection.
I told myself I was being merciful. That I wasn’t some caveman who thought a woman was property. That I was too busy, too tangled up in both sides of the law, to care about a wife I never wanted.
But the truth?
I wasn’t attracted to Veronika the way I was to Marina.
Every time I looked at my wife’s statuesque, polished beauty, all I saw was the shadow of her half sister, the woman I could never have. The one who set my blood on fire just by breathing the same air.
It wasn’t fair. Not to Veronika. Not to Marina.
So I let Veronika go, and she ran straight into the fire.
She had power, money, the kind of last name that could open doors and command loyalty. She could have spent her days draped in luxury, taken a discreet lover if she needed one, someone safe, someone I could pretend didn’t exist.
Instead, she made herself a target.
She mistook my indifference for permission to play reckless games with men who didn’t know the meaning of mercy. Maybe she wanted my attention. I’d never know. Because the freedom I gave her is what got her killed.
I had every opportunity to stop it. To step in before it was too late.
I didn’t.
And now Veronika was dead because I never protected her the way I should have.
I wouldn’t make the same mistake with Marina.
I might have given Veronika her freedom, but I’d bury anyone who tried to take Marina from me.
Marina’s breath caught as she stared past me, her gaze unfocused, lost. The reality of what had just happened was sinking in, piece by damning piece.
Her eyes locked on the window.
I followed her stare and saw it. Her handprint, smeared on the fogged-up glass.
Like that Titanic movie. How fitting. The thought slashed through me, sharp and bitter. Two people caught in a moment of reckless passion, leaving proof of their sins behind. Except there were no doomed lovers here, just the wreckage of a past neither of us could escape.
“This is so wrong,” Marina whispered, her voice raw, her fingers combing through her already-mussed hair. Her hands dropped to smooth over her middle in an attempt to cover herself. As if that changed anything.
“She was my sister, and—”
God, I wanted to tell her. Wanted to rip the illusion from her grip and show her the truth. That Veronika had never really been my wife in anything but name only. That we were strangers under the same roof, two people bound by duty and contract, never by love. But I couldn’t say it.
Not when Veronika was gone. Not when she wasn’t here to defend herself. Whatever she’d been—reckless, selfish, lost—she was still Marina’s sister.
“Marina,” I murmured, reaching up to trace my fingers along her jaw, brushing over the soft skin. For the briefest second, she leaned into my palm, her lashes fluttering closed.
Then, just as quickly, she pulled away.
Her expression hardened. “Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger, shame…and something else neither of us wanted to name. “Why would you do this?”
So many reasons.
Because I’d wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her.
Because every time she walked into a room, I fucking felt it crackling under my skin, burning through my restraint.
Because no matter what she wore, whether it was a silk dress or jeans and a T-shirt, I could only ever picture her like this. Naked. Pinned beneath me. Mine.
Because she was the only woman who had ever fought me, and I loved it.
She had made me chase her. Across the city. Across continents. She had built a life for herself with nothing but grit and defiance, surviving in a world that should have swallowed her whole.
And when she fought me in her bedroom, trying to resist what we both knew was inevitable, I hadn’t felt rage. I’d felt fucking pride.
I couldn’t tell her any of that.
So I gave her the simplest, ugliest truth.
“I wanted you,” I said. “You wanted me too. So I took you.”
My gaze trailed over her, zeroing in on the belt next to her on the bed.
Her eyes followed mine, and I caught the moment realization hit, the way her cheeks burned, her breath stuttered.