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)
“Try that again,” he says in a low, stern voice. “Come here, I’ll show you how.”
Stefan stares and looks at me. I shrug and gesture toward the dishwasher.
Stefan tries again, and Semyon deems it acceptable, but as my brother tries to leave, Semyon catches him. “Not yet. Didn’t I ask you to put that game away?”
I watch as Stefan gets that look in his eyes that I am all too familiar with.
Is he going to push back?
I watch as he tosses the checkers into the box. Semyon’s lips twitch. “You can do better than that, but I’ll let it go for now because you need to go to your room and do what I said.”
I bury my face in my cup of coffee.
And then it happens. Stefan snaps. He stares at Semyon with a frown that clouds his vision. “You’re not the boss of me,” he says, but he says it in a low voice, as if he wants to defy Semyon but isn’t quite sure how far to push.
Oh no.
I lower the coffee mug and take a step toward Stefan on instinct.
“You’re living in my house,” Semyon says matter-of-factly. “I’m married to your sister, and by Bratva law, that means I’m in charge.” He lowers his voice. “Understood?”
Stefan looks around and opens his mouth to protest. I stare in horror. No.
“You don’t have housekeepers? People who clean or something?”
Semyon nods curtly. “I do. But children expect maids to clean up after them. Men take care of their belongings and home as a matter of habit. Do you want to be a man or a boy?”
I want to remind him he’s only eight years old, but I don’t intervene. Not yet.
Semyon continues. “I will be checking, and if you haven't made your bed and tidied up sufficiently, there will be consequences."
I stare at him, aghast. Is he threatening my brother?
“Go,” he says, pointing to the door. Stefan runs.
I stare at him, at a loss for words. There’s a glint of amusement in his piercing blue eyes as he steps closer to me. “He’ll be fine. Trust me, I would know.”
He was half-raised by his older brother, and I have a feeling disobedience and disrespect didn’t fly in that house either.
“I didn’t step in because I agreed with you this time,” I say with a warning frown. Semyon shrugs and steps close, taking my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly soft. His fingers trace up to my elbow, and goosebumps erupt over my arm as if waking from a long slumber. When he reaches my shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. I shiver.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and velvety soft. There’s an urgency in his words, and I remember for the millionth time—this is Semyon.
The same boy I swooned over, the one who made me melt. The one I can’t trust.
I stare, unmoving. Before I can respond, he crooks a finger at me. "You. Upstairs."
Shocking that he wants to leave the breakfast dishes on the table, but it seems urgent.
My breath catches in my throat. Being alone with him is dangerous.
My heart thunders in my chest when he follows up behind me and half shoves me in before he slams and locks the door.
Oh my god.
I stare at him when he closes the space between us, grabs my chin, and tilts my face upward.
“You make me crazy, Anya,” he rasps, his eyes locked onto mine. I stare into his ice-blue depths as he leans on his forearm, caging me in.
My heart thumps madly in my chest.
It seems like he’s warring with himself. “I want you so fucking badly.” Cursing under his breath, he mutters in Russian.
I swallow hard. “You hate that you want me?”
His voice is a low growl filled with regret. “No. I hate that I’ll fucking ruin you.”
I open my mouth to protest, even though I have no idea what I’ll say, when his mouth crashes on mine. It’s not gentle; it’s all-consuming as if he’s pouring every unspoken word and feeling into the kiss. His hands tangle in my hair. I stifle a moan at how good it feels when he pulls.
My hands find the broad expanse of his shoulders, his muscles tight and powerful. My arms loop around his neck. I pull him closer so there’s no distance between us.
The ground seems to shift under my feet. My silky bathrobe slips loose as his hands skim up my sides. I push against his chest, unable to stop him because I need to feel him. I need him to brand me, claim me, mark me with his touch so when I wake alone in bed and remember that Semyon Kopolov is my husband, I can convince myself this is real.
"I can't fight you anymore," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Maybe I don't want to."