Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
The hearth is old stone, rough and warm to the touch. Across from the bed, there’s a dark oak armoire. Everything else fades into quiet. Dark floorboards. Unassuming light fixtures. The faint scent of leather lingering in the air.
There’s nothing personal here, no photographs, no knickknacks. Except…
One thing on the nightstand catches my eye. It stops me.
My pink hair tie?
He looks almost sheepish when he sees me staring at it. “Aye,” he says. “You left it at the pub once. I wore it around my wrist for a bit when no one was looking. Kept it in my pocket after that. Like a little good luck charm.”
“You kept my hair tie?”
“Aye. That a problem?”
And then that glint in his eye, that challenge in his voice. “Darling, when are you going to get it through your pretty head? I escaped jail for you, Zoya. And you’re surprised I kept your hair tie?”
I wonder if he thought of it behind bars. If he wished he could have his little talisman.
I had let myself get angry with him. I gave in to that sharp, pulsing heat that flared inside me when he didn’t show up. That tightness in my chest, that sting behind my eyes, I felt it all.
It felt like my greatest fear came true.
He had used me. Just used me. Like I was nothing more than a pawn on his board. Like I was just a means to an end. That he never wanted me at all. Not really. Not Zoya Kopolova, the girl, not the woman, not the heart beating behind the name.
And while my family has never made me feel that way intentionally, that kind of fear still lived in the corners. Maybe it comes with the territory. The youngest. The smallest. The one they kept on the sidelines, out of the blood and bone and tragedy that make up our legacy.
My brothers and sister have always known things before I did. Always protected me in their own way. In that cold, unyielding Bratva way that still feels like love, even when it cuts.
So when Seamus disappeared, after the supposed attack on my family, and I kept coming back, week after week, praying for a sign of him… I knew. I knew the truth that gutted me. He was done with me. I was a game piece he’d moved off the board.
But now… now I’m in his home.
“Let’s get to bed, love,” he says, thick and husky, like smoke and velvet.
Morning will come soon. And I know, it settles deep in my chest, that our time together is limited. That something’s going to break. I can feel it hovering just out of reach.
He looks away, his brows furrowing, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying what we both know. That this, us, is going to go fast. Too fast.
I nod, biting back everything I want to scream.
“Bed,” he says again. Firmer now.
But doesn’t he want to come too? Isn’t this the part where there are rules?
I stand there frozen, unsure, and he comes to me. Moves like a shadow over moonlight. He bends, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his voice is a quiet growl that curls down my spine.
“My love,” he murmurs. “I thought I explained my expectations to you. When I tell you to do something, I expect obedience.” He pauses. “Is there a problem?”
My lips tug downward into a frown even as my pulse hammers. I swallow hard, the words caught in my throat.
“Another rule,” he whispers, so soft it’s almost cruel. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Doesn’t have to be your life story. Doesn’t have to be much. But one answer, love. Or there will be consequences.”
He kisses my cheek. Gentle. His mouth is to my ear. “It’s our first week together. I’ll let this one slide. But don’t make me repeat myself again.”
I nod, then swallow. Barely a whisper escapes. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes flash, dark and knowing. He likes that. I can feel it.
My cheeks go up in flames. My belly swoops and tightens, and I swallow again.
“I’m going to take it easy on you tonight,” he says, stepping back just a bit. “I won’t punish you. Not on our wedding night. But I did ask a question.”
He tilts his head, watching me closely. “So let me ask again. You seem like you don’t want to go to sleep. What’s the problem, love?”
I can barely get the words out. “It’s our… our wedding night.”
Doesn’t he want me? Shouldn’t we…? I fidget, flushed and nervous. “Aren’t there… rules?” My voice breaks on the last word.
He chuckles, low and dark. Clearly amused.
“Ah, angel,” he says, and kisses my cheek again. “Aren’t you a sight.”
Then he nods, just once. “Yes. There are rules. We’re expected to consummate the marriage. Both the Irish and the Russians will expect it to be official.”