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)
Those marks. I know them. Every muscle, every scar, tells a story of battles fought and won, of violence barely kept in check. And I realize with brutal, heart-stopping clarity—that I’m his next challenge.
The sign of Bratva… like mine.
He’s honed his body to perfection, unsurprisingly. He’s a man who values firm authority—over his environment, and over those under his care. It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that he exercises rigid control over his own body.
I am not complaining. If I have to share a bed and take vows with a man I hardly know, it might as well be a man who looks like that. Vavoom.
He tosses his shirt toward the bathroom, and it lands in the wicker hamper.
I swallow and lick my lips. I had the distinct impression under those clothes of his, he hid a powerful, sexy body, and I am not disappointed.
Next, he unfastens his jeans. The moment feels too intimate, too private for two strangers. Yes, on paper, we’re married. At least that gold ring on my finger says so, and so does he, but it feels like just today, I learned his name.
We need weeks, maybe months, before we can even begin to understand what it means to get to know each other, but my thoughts quickly jumble together like soup when he steps out of his faded jeans.
Oh. My.
I stare, unashamed, at how his broad shoulders taper into defined abs, accentuated with a smattering of coarse, dark hair and powerful hips that—okay, alright.
Phew. I swallow and lick my lips again. His legs are thick, muscular, solid, and so utterly masculine my breath catches. I glance down at my own body—trim and pale in comparison. Fit, yes, but much smaller. Daintier. We couldn’t be more different physically.
My body reacts instinctively, drawn to the sight of him. I wait for him to pull on pajamas, but instead, he walks over to me, nearly naked, except for that tiny strip of fabric he calls boxers. It seems wildly inappropriate, but logic tells me it really isn't.
"You don’t need to wear anything to bed.” Is it my imagination, or has his voice gotten deeper? Huskier? More masculine?
Oh god. There is no damn way I'm letting this stranger undress me. "I'm fine," I say, panicking. "I'll just sleep in this." We both look down at my running shorts and rumpled tee.
His scowl sends a jolt through me, hardening my nipples under his intense gaze.
So maybe we don’t need weeks or months. My body already knows what to do.
"The hell you are. I'm your husband, Anissa. You’ll do what I say. And I’ve explained disobedience will earn consequences.”
I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out.
"I'm losing patience," he says in a low growl. A small part of me is curious what happens when he loses his patience, but the logical part of me realizes that wouldn't be very fun. “You don’t want that to happen.”
Or would I?
"I don't remember you. I don't even remember me. I feel strange being undressed by you."
His voice is low, raspy, commanding. "I don't give a fuck if it's strange. I gave you an order, and I expect to be obeyed."
Again, my jaw drops in shock, unable to respond. What the hell am I going to do about it?
My libido gives me a hint of false bravado. "What if I don't want to obey you?" I can tell by the sharp set of his jaw and the cut of his eyes that he doesn’t like my response. He opens his mouth as if to snap at me and then thinks twice about it.
"So you want to undress yourself," he says quietly. His jaw firms as his gaze meets mine. I want to take a step back; I want to turn away, but I make myself meet his stare.
I try to hold my ground. "I need time to feel comfortable getting naked in front of you."
His eyes flash. "I’m your husband." The words hang in the air between us as if he's staking his claim.
"Exactly. I'm not one of your siblings that you’re in charge of. I'm your wife."
His brows rise in mild surprise. Surprise at my words or my pushing back at his commands? Maybe both.
Strong, large, very capable hands anchor on his hips as he continues. "I respect that you don't have a recollection of our world, but let me remind you," he says in a low, measured tone, "I do not tolerate disobedience. Yes, from the people under my command, including my siblings. But most especially my wife. It's my job to protect you, and if you defy me, you make that job difficult or damn near impossible. I don't take kindly to defiance, Anissa."
So maybe I don't want to find out what he'll do.
"I don't think it's very good for you to control my life," I say defensively, but I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a tide that’s sweeping sand from beneath my feet with every tug of the undertow.