Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
He says I’m his wife.
I have nothing—no money. No friends.
No escape.
He’s everything I never imagined: ruthless, calculating, feared. A beautiful monster with a face like a god’s, cold and untouchable.A mafia kingpin whose wealth could buy empires and whose power makes the world tremble.
My captor.
My husband.
He vows to protect me at all cost, and in return demands...everything.
My body. My obedience. My submission.
Every touch, every brutal kiss stirs a dangerous desire neither of us can control. His words may be laced with venom, but his touch is fire, and every time he’s near, I burn.
As days bleed into weeks, the fog of my past refuses to lift. The more I fight it, the harder I’m pulled into his orbit.
But as my memories start to unravel, I wonder—what if the past I can’t remember holds the key to our destruction?
And when the truth finally comes out...will either of us survive?
For readers of the Wicked Vows series, this is a fully standalone book one in a brand new spin-off series: Polina's story.
Please note: Unleashed is a standalone dark romance with a strong, fierce heroine and an unapologetically obsessive, jealous, and possessive alpha anti-hero. No OW drama, no cliffhanger, always a hard-won HEA.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
RAFAIL
I stare at the cold, empty altar in front of me. I demanded simplicity, fitting for nuptials in a godless church and a loveless union.
A vase of fading white roses, their petals curling at the edges, sits on the marble altar, the cloying scent nearly nauseating. Shadows cling to the high, vaulted ceilings, cast by candles that flicker in iron sconces. Above, darkened stained glass depicts saints and martyrs in muted colors, their hollow eyes staring down through fractured light.
A faint trace of incense lingers from Sunday mass, mixing with the damp smell of old stone and earth. Here, walls seem to absorb sound, muting every breath, every heartbeat.
Every secret.
The priest my uncle summoned stands before me, his face pale in the half-light, almost skeletal in the shadows. His fingers tremble around the ancient leather-bound book he holds to his chest; its gilded edges tarnished with age. His eyes dart between me and the altar as though he expects some divine wrath to strike at any moment.
He looks as if he's about to faint. Coward. They should have appointed someone more powerful to be in charge of a place named The Cathedral of the Eternal Martyrs, nestled in the heart of my family’s hometown of Zalivka, a stone’s throw from Moscow. I can almost feel the reproachful looks from their images in stained glass windows of forest green and blood red.
"Relax, Father," I say, my voice resonating in the cavernous church. I look away. "It's not your fault she pulled this stunt. I won’t blame you." He blows out a breath as if I granted him a boon. Hell, maybe I did.
I can't help that my reputation precedes me. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. It would make shit easier.
Eh, maybe not.
I can see the whites of his eyes and don’t miss the way he's cleared his throat seventeen times in the past five minutes while I waited for my bride. She isn't coming. Not now, not ever.
The small crew of loyal friends and family who showed up to witness the ceremony sit still. No one dares to move. It looks like they’re hardly breathing. Makes sense. They don’t know if I’ll burn this church to the fucking ground or call a mob to go after her.
Even I don’t know how to react to being stood up by my future bride.
Mocked. Humiliated.
Disobeyed.
My hands clench into fists. When I find her… when I track down my bride and drag her back to me, I won’t unleash my rage on her. No. I’ll demand penance from her. Absolute surrender, body and soul, until she’s broken and bound to me.
Out of nowhere, the raucous sound of someone pressing down on an organ breaks the silence. I turn abruptly, my gaze fixed on the choir loft, where a red-faced, flustered organist shakes her head.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Kopolov. I stumbled. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
I shift away from her, dismissing her with a flick of my wrist. My fingers trace the edge of my cufflinks, an old family heirloom that once belonged to my father, and his father before him, and his father before him. I barely notice Semyon until he’s already there, a quiet shadow moving into my peripheral vision.
Semyon stands just a few feet away, his lean frame blending into the dim lighting near the altar. I see the faint gleam of his glasses as he watches the room, his gaze sharp and calculating, missing nothing. He waits, a small shift of his gaze the only sign that he’s asking permission to approach. Always the strategist, his mind whirs with the next step, cold and watchful. I jerk my chin in his direction, a signal. He ascends the three steps soundlessly, his calmness a stark contrast to the silent storm brewing inside me.