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)
Frowning before he answers, he finally nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Wordlessly, I watch him walk over to the chest of drawers made of dark maple, worn but obviously well-made. It matches the bed and the bedside table, all of it solid wood.
I wonder if this was his parents' room.
"You said your brothers are adults?"
Something flickers across his face before he answers without looking at me. "Only Zoya’s still a minor.”
I watch him, trying to stay focused but unable to hide my unbridled curiosity. He is my husband, after all. Those muscles? That tanned skin? Those corded forearms with visible veins, a smattering of dark, coarse hair, and strong, powerful hands I can almost feel all over my body—mine.
I swallow hard. Opening the top drawer, he pulls out a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers. But then, his hands shift to an ivory tank top and matching shorts—women’s clothes. I don’t recognize them, but I wonder if they’re mine.
“Are those… mine?”
Not bothering to turn, he throws them aside. “No. My sisters thought you’d need those.” I see a corner of his lips quirk up when he gives me a sidelong look, his eyes burning a hole straight through me. “Cute.”
I stare, my mouth open. “What do you mean?” I finally manage to ask.
“You’re my wife, Anissa.” His tone is tight, clipped, and laced with authority. “I’ll give you leeway, knowing you can’t remember many things, so allow me to remind you.” When he turns fully to look at me, I nearly swallow my tongue. Sweet Jesus, it’s like looking at the body of a vengeful god—beautiful and terrible, capable of utter destruction and relentless protection. When he continues, there isn’t a hint of hesitation.
He studies me and steps closer. I feel the weight of his glare, the heat of his gaze, his masculine scent overwhelming me as he draws near. His fingers trail down my neck, lingering with a possessive, almost punishing slowness that makes my pulse race.
“You’ll obey me, Anissa,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “And in turn, I’ll give you everything. Safety. Devotion. A life where no harm will ever come to you. All you have to do is submit to me. Learn your place as my wife.”
That’s it, eh?
Still, a thrill—unsettling yet undeniable—weaves through me, wrapping around me like a spell, an unbreakable vow, something ancient and powerful binding us together. I feel half hypnotized in his presence. I open my mouth to protest, to resist, to claim a part of my identity, but my resistance falters when his thumb sweeps against my jaw, tipping my face up to meet his dark, stern gaze.
“You’re asking me to surrender to a man I don’t remember,” I whisper, my voice shaky, even as a part of me knows, somehow, that this was always my destiny. Somehow, I can’t remember my own name, but I know the law of the Bratva.
“I’m not asking, Anissa,” he corrects, his grip both firm and reverent. “I’m demanding it. In return, I vow my utter protection. I’ll shield you from anything that tries to hurt you. But I am not a man who shares or who gives up an ounce of control.”
Something inside me stirs like a forgotten memory, a whisper that somehow, this is a familiar dance—a test of wills, an exchange of power I both hate and somehow crave.
“Do you understand me, beautiful?”
I nod. “I do,” I whisper, unable to fight the need to say yes, to see him actually make good on his promises. “Yes.”
Bending toward me, he claims my mouth in a punishing kiss, his fingers anchored in my hair. His tongue licks mine, and my insides melt into liquid fire before he pulls away.
Our foreheads meet. “That’s my girl,” he says in a heated whisper. “Good girl.” His hand strokes down my back in a gentle, possessive sweep, and I shiver under his touch.
Then his voice drops, a rough edge slipping into his tone as he whispers, “Moya dyevochka… moya kharoshaya dyevochka.”
My girl… my good girl.
My heart skips at the words—low and intimate. I close my eyes as his praise washes over me, threading through me, bringing life to my tired body and awakening a primal need as he traces the outline of my jaw. His gaze darkens. “Ty prinadlezhish mnyeh.”
You belong to me.
His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze. “And that means no one gets a piece of you. Not your heart. Not your loyalty.”
I can barely breathe, caught in the intensity of his stare and the raw promise of his words.
I nod, the barest hint of agreeing, but it’s enough. His thumb brushes my cheek, and I see the satisfaction flicker in his eyes as he repeats, softer this time, “Moya kharoshaya dyevochka.”
I watch, almost hypnotized, as he removes his shirt. His arms lift, the fabric sliding up to reveal his bare back, every bit as powerful as I’d imagined. My first impression was spot on. He’s built like a warrior, with silver scars crisscrossing dark ink on his shoulders, back, and torso—his past etched onto his skin. My heart aches.