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 aren’t going to work,” he growls before he tugs his own black tee over his head. “Take those off.”
Before I can argue, he’s pulling his soft, worn, comfortable tee over my head. It falls past my hips but feels better. Familiar. I inhale deeply, enveloped in his rugged, masculine scent. He eyes me for a second, then tugs the other backup clothes on.
“There,” he says with a nod of satisfaction. “That’s better. Not that you’re going out there like that until I find something more suitable for you, but it’ll do for now.”
I sit up in bed and cross my arms on my chest. “You think I’m going to sit in this bed while you and the rest of your family have a meeting, or eat dinner, or whatever the hell you’re planning on doing?”
I glare at him, fully aware that my threatening look is about as effective as a miniature Chihuahua growling at a Great Dane. But still, I try.
Shaking his head, he levels me with a look, reminding me that he isn’t just my husband. He’s the head of the Kopolov family dynasty and very likely one of Moscow’s most feared. I should hate how naturally he takes control. But even as the weight of his power bears down on me, a part of me craves it. Craves him. I should be running from him, not aching for him.
“Do you think I’m allowing my cousins, brothers, and uncle to see my wife’s body, barely covered by my tee?”
Yeah, so I’m not going to win this one.
I sigh.
Cupping my jaw, his troubled eyes grow gentle. “I promise I’ll find something more suitable,” he says.
I know I’m not the only one deeply conflicted, but I can almost see it in his eyes—the moment he pulls away.
We haven’t resolved anything.
I draw my knees to my chest and nod at him, not even entirely sure what I’m agreeing with. I have no choice but to retreat, as he has. When all else fails, self-preservation seems my only option.
When he leaves the room, I can see the shadows of others outside. I want to be with them. I want to check on Zoya and see if Yana’s okay. I want to make sure Rodion hasn’t done something reckless and crazy, and Semyon hasn’t buckled under a torrent of whatever Rafail throws at him.
I want to make sure Irma isn’t bullying the girls, and Eduard isn’t taking advantage of the boys. I want to get to know the cousins and see what makes them tick. Matvei seems fine enough, but I don’t trust Gleb. The fact that these two are Irma and Eduard’s sons is not a point in their favor.
And I want… I want my husband. I don’t like the distance between us… emotional or otherwise. But the space between us isn’t just physical—there’s a chasm that grows with every secret, and I don’t know how to cross it.
It’s hard to table my need for answers, but there’s no use screaming at the universe to tell me anything when we have more pressing needs to tend to and no answers are coming just yet.
So I wait.
I scroll through my phone and look up Polina Romanova, but it’s just what I suspect—if she has any social media, they’re well hidden. None of the Kopolovs have social media accounts either. Rafail would have a conniption because privacy is their greatest ally when it comes to cyber protection.
But then, as I scroll through seemingly irrelevant links and pictures, something catches my attention. An old photo, grainy and poorly lit, surfaces on an obscure blog site. It’s a group picture but obviously from a while ago, at a—charity gala?
I know that blonde hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. They’re definitely… mine. That’s me.
I close my eyes when I’m assaulted by memories.
My mother and me, planning our yearly gala, the one time of year my brothers played nice for everyone because it was in their best interest to gain alliances and the good graces of their community. Art auctions… We did an art auction every year. I can even remember when I bought the dress I wore in that photo because I wanted the one that showed my cleavage, and my father forbade it.
That was a few years before he died.
I blink back tears. Would I remember them if I saw them?
Are they looking for me?
Out there, somewhere, is there a family desperate to find me? Or is my home here with the Kopolovs for now? Will I ever know?
Will the truth be enough?
I stare back at the photo, my memories coming back now the way fire licks at wood. Slowly at first, but as it builds… all-consuming.
There’s Viktor, my enormous brute of a brother, beside Aleks, the thinner, muscled one with piercing blue eyes people used to say mirrored my own. We were all adopted—I remember that now, a collection of family members pieced together over the years.