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)
Semyon chuckles. “He’s got a point, brother."
My younger brother was a wild card, and some like to think he still is. He needed a firm hand. Discipline. He tried my patience like a motherfucker, but I stayed the course, and he finally grew the hell up.
Now, he's a dependable, full-fledged member of our Bratva, but I haven't forgotten who he was. Maybe all of us carry a thread of who we were, no matter how we evolve or age.
"You should at least consider what he says," Semyon suggests. "You don't know how long you have. What if she remembers within a week? If she still hates you, you're going to have a woman who knows she's not actually married to you," he says in a whisper, "who still hates you, who escaped you once and would no doubt try to escape you again."
"I have at least eight weeks," I respond, staring at her, prone in the bed. "She's wearing a cast."
Semyon’s brows shoot up, and he shakes his head. "You're telling me a woman bold enough to run away from the most powerful man in Zalivka is going to let a little thing like a cast hold her back?"
I grunt again. “You don’t have to fall in love with a woman to get her to respect and obey you. I have rules. She’ll follow them.” I give them both a meaningful look. They learned. Why complicate shit?
"Jesus," Semyon says, rolling his eyes. "I feel like the candlestick or the clock or whatever the fuck in Beauty and the Beast trying to tell the Beast to mind his fucking manners."
Rodion snorts. "You are definitely the clock. He’s the high-strung one."
What the fuck are they talking about? I shake my head and text Vadka.
What have you found?
A lot. Briefing coming to your inbox in ten minutes. Look it over, then we'll chat.
I nod and shove my phone in my pocket, glance back at the room, and my heart leaps into my throat. The bed’s empty.
“What the fuck?”
Semyon places a hand on my arm. "She got out of bed two minutes ago when you were texting Vadka. She hobbled off to the bathroom. Relax.”
Relax. Jesus. I’ll relax when they lay my body in a grave. I have too much at stake to relax.
I knew I should've stayed right there. Jesus. What if she falls? She doesn't have any crutches.
“Dinner at six,” I snap. “Don’t be late.”
As I reach the door to our bedroom, I can still hear Semyon grumbling from down the hall. "Dinner at six, as if we haven't had it at six every single night for years. Does he think we'll forget?"
I flip him off without turning around, catching Rodion muttering something I don’t quite hear. So what if I like routine? Structure. So what if I feel like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I’m holding on to whatever scraps of control I have left?
I stop just outside the door, taking a moment to steady myself. The late afternoon sun filters through the hallway windows, casting long shadows. Outside, the landscapers finish the lawn, and from downstairs, the quiet clink of dishes tells me Zoya’s busy in the kitchen. She begged to cook, and it keeps her busy. I’d hire someone in a heartbeat, but knowing Zoya’s occupied calms me.
Inside, my bride waits.
My bride.
The woman who betrayed me. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t recall what she did—her choices put my family and my family’s legacy at risk, and for that, she’ll pay. Semyon can say whatever the hell he wants about how I handle this. But I know exactly what I’m going to do. She’ll know who I am and who she’s married to. That’s all that matters.
I glance at the two guards stationed outside her door. They straighten immediately as I approach.
"How is she?" I ask, my voice colder than I intended. I don’t want them to see the instinct of panic when I saw she was out of bed.
"She's awake, sir," one of them answers.
I square my shoulders, pushing the door open, my mind filled with the warnings of my brothers. I won’t fall into the trap they think I will. This woman may be my wife, but she must understand what happens if she crosses me. When she remembers what she did—when she recalls running from me—will she realize the damage she caused?
Will it matter if she does?
Before I step inside, I catch sight of Zoya at the end of the hallway. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, when she meets my gaze, she flinches and backs away.
She knew how I handled the others—harsh when necessary. I had to, there was too much at stake, too much at risk. I’ve never laid a hand on her, yet she still shrinks from me like a frightened kitten—and I fucking hate it.