Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I slam the light switch off and turn my back to it all. If he thinks he can buy my affection…
No. He won’t win.
But he said he doesn’t want my love. He doesn’t care for my attention. So what is this game he’s playing? I won’t forgive him for what he’s done.
And yet… it’s getting harder to hold on to my anger.
I take a deep breath, willing the rising tide of confusion to settle. Stefan is asleep, safe down the hall in another room. I can almost picture Semyon laying him down. He wouldn’t have left the coverlet on to get dirty—he’d have removed Stefan’s shoes first, then tucked him in neatly.
Would he? Does he have that kind of softness in him?
Panic grips my chest. Is my brother really safe here?
I shake the thought away and move to the door, trying the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Oh god.
I whir around, scanning the windows for the first time. They’re locked, too, with heavy steel bars framing every pane. He doesn’t trust me not to run. And why would he? I already proved I would at the first opportunity.
My phone buzzes on the desk, a text lighting up the screen. It’s Ophelia.
Ophelia
Are you all right?
I grab the phone but hesitate. Semyon’s cold words echo in my mind: You’re not allowed to contact my wife without my permission.
The sound of footsteps outside the door breaks my thoughts. My stomach drops, and I shake my head, denial flooding my mind.
What is he going to do to me?
I scramble, stripping off my wet dress and tossing his jacket onto the pile of discarded clothes. But then I pause, staring at the heap on the floor.
Which is worse—disobeying him by not undressing as he ordered or leaving a mess in his pristine room?
Semyon is always precise. Impeccable.
I scoop up the clothes and toss them into a nearby hamper, stripping the rest of my garments as quickly as I can. My gaze catches on the full-length oval mirror in the corner.
For a moment, I freeze, staring at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair wild in soft waves over my shoulders. Standing naked, I take in what I haven’t seen in years. My body is unfamiliar, the curves of my full breasts and the flare of my hips foreign after years of not looking. My belly is soft but flat, and my thighs strong. My hands trail down my sides unconsciously.
Semyon’s voice echoes in my mind: I like my wife with curves.
I swallow hard and avert my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. What is he going to do?
The door handle clicks. My heart leaps into my throat. I stand frozen, my breath shallow. I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
“Good,” Semyon says, his voice tired and taut. “For once, you did something I asked you to.” He steps into the room and removes his tie, unloosening it with his large, thick hand. I watch, mesmerized. I cross my arms over my chest, but he only shakes his head sternly at me.
“No. Don’t cover up. You’re my wife. Hiding accomplishes nothing.”
“I’m your wife, but I hardly know you.”
He doesn’t respond because he’s too busy staring at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice softer than before, as if testing the words aloud. Nodding, satisfied, he repeats himself. “Beautiful.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
His clinical gaze lingers. “A simple observation, but it’s true.” It’s the first time I realize he’s soaked to the skin like I was.
“Are you trying to manage me with compliments?”
The furrow of his brow hints at confusion. Frustration? “No.”
He's standing before me, wearing nothing but the white T-shirt clinging to his skin, tucked into a pair of soaking-wet pants. He walks over to me, and I stand stock still. I don't know what to expect.
"Your hair is wet." He strokes it out of my face—not like a gesture of tenderness, but as though he needs to see my eyes. "Where did you get that dress?"
I swallow hard. "It was my mother's."
"I thought so.” Wordlessly, he trails a finger over my shoulder and down the length of my arm.
"Your skin is so soft," he whispers.
I shiver.
"Are you cold?" His brow furrows.
Does he have no idea what he does to me?
"No." My voice is a husky whisper.
He circles me, staring as if I’m a work of art he’s trying to understand. "Do you know the rule of the Bratva?”
I lick my lips. “Which one?”
“We have to consummate our marriage."
Heat floods through me. I nod. "No, but I figured as much."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I assumed that if you treat marriage as a transaction, then you would also treat… sex the same way. If you need to be married, then you need to have children."
"Smart girl. Are you a virgin?" His eyes darken, daring me to answer anything but yes.