Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Like me.
Because right now, I’m in the back of an armored car next to my soon-to-be husband, forced into a marriage he tells me is temporary when I know better, fleeing from the vindictive son of a bitch I’ve spent years trying to escape.
In the books? This is an easy one. My Bratva hottie saunters in, impervious to the laws and consequences. He defeats the bad guy and claims me as his own; we suspend disbelief, and there’s no legal fallout. Maybe I have his babies, and somehow, our two extremely different lives meld into a happily ever after.
But this is nothing like that. Right now, my nerves are so raw I’m nauseous. Rodion’s anything but romantic as he curses in Russian and gives me short, cryptic answers, as he’s glued to his phone.
Right now, we’re hurtling toward our wedding day.
I want to keep my mind in the present, to ground myself in the reality of what’s tangible and real.
I’m safe.
We’re getting married.
We will make this work.
He loves me.
Loves me? I feel like I’m saying one of those affirmations they tell you to say as if saying I’m beautiful, I’m rich, I’m perfect, will somehow make it so. But there’s a disconnect between the words and reality.
Loves me?
How do you really, truly know someone does?
“Here we are.” Rodion doesn’t look at me, his jaw clenched as he stares out the window. I want to reach for him. I want to bring him back to me. I want to see that passion in his eyes I saw last night. I’d give anything for that smirk right now.
But instead, I see nothing but the cold, impassive face of the Bratva. My future husband.
“Here we are,” I echo. I sigh and look away.
The Romanov estate stretches out into the sunset as if it’s carved straight from the earth—unyielding and imposing, as old as sin. With the brief conversation I had with Yana and Zoya last night, I gathered the Romanovs practically own everything in The Cove here in New York, nestled between Coney Island and Manhattan.
The car comes to a stop, but I don’t move.
He said Shawn was here. Where exactly is he? How safe are we?
“Let’s go.”
“Rodion—”
When his eyes meet mine, something in me softens. I feel vulnerable and afraid, and no one, no one has ever made me feel as safe as Rodion has. My words come out in a shaky whisper despite my bravest attempts to speak up. “Where is he?”
Rodion reaches for both of my hands, his gaze burning into mine. “Rafail said he’s gone for now. Told him he’d be back, and there would be hell to pay.” He shakes his head. “As if he thinks he can take on the Romanov and Kopolov family combined.”
But there’s a flicker in his eyes. This isn’t as simple as it seems.
I try to mask my feelings, try to pretend that I’m not a nervous wreck knowing Shawn’s flown all the way here to end whatever there is between me and Rodion. And right then, for one fraction of a second… I’m relieved we’re getting married. Even if it isn’t my choice. Even if it’s temporary.
I can feel the tension beneath Rodion’s calm exterior, his pulse rapid.
I can feel my own.
Rodion wraps his fingers around the back of my neck and brings my mouth to his. The kiss is tender and chaste, a reminder that he’s going to do everything in his power to protect me. To keep us safe.
I have to hold onto that.
“You’re strong, Ember Steele. Even your name is fire. Unyielding.” He shakes his head, holding my gaze with his. “And no one, not even me, is going to take that from you.” He leans in and whispers in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Especially me.”
I have to believe him.
I have no other choice.
While the rest of this situation feels fraught and uncertain, there’s one thing I know for sure: the Romanovs don’t do modest. Do any of them?
For one fleeting second, I don’t feel like Cinderella in a borrowed gown, waiting for the clock to strike midnight before I turn back into a pauper. No. I hold my chin high, and for a fleeting second, I don’t care about Shawn. I don’t care about temporary or forced or whatever restrictions we want to put on my marriage to Rodion. For one fleeting second, I belong here.
Maybe I am a queen. His little queen, yes, but… a queen.
The world outside the window looks something like a dream. The gorgeous estate is sprawling and beautiful despite the marble, steel, and sharp edges of a New York winter. Ice crystals decorate the bare branches of the weeping willows that line the walk to the house.
Silhouettes of spire columns stand dark against the morning light backdrop.
Even from here, I can see sparkling chandeliers glinting from massive windows and staff inside milling about with efficiency and decorum. The magnificent display of ice sculptures takes my breath away, silver garland glinting on the wrought iron fences and rail that line the home.