Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
"That's depressing."
His lips curve into a small, dark smile. "That's reality."
I take another sip of wine, bolstered by the warmth spreading through my veins. "So what does the bratva boss do when he's not, you know, kidnapping people?"
"Are you seriously asking me if I have any hobbies?"
"I'm asking if you have a life outside of being a crime lord. Or is it all guns and threats and brooding looks?"
He laughs and the sound does something dangerous to my insides.
"I read. I play piano. I enjoy good wine and better company." His eyes gleam. "And I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood."
"Careful, Holly. Keep talking like that and I might think you're not afraid of me anymore."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
Because he's right.
Somewhere between the wine and the firelight and his confession about loneliness, I've forgotten to be terrified.
I clear my throat.
"So how does someone become the boss of the bratva?"
His lips curve into a small smile. "My father was pakhan before me. When he died, the position passed to me."
"I'm sorry," I say. "About your father."
"It was a long time ago," he says quietly.
"How long?"
"Ten years. Him and my mother. It was a car bomb."
The words are flat, emotionless, but I hear what he's not saying. The grief underneath. The rage. I can hear it because I feel it every single day.
"That's terrible," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."
He drains his wine glass and refills it. "What about you? You said you don't have family."
It's my turn to look away, to stare into the fire instead of at him.
"My parents died when I was twelve. A car accident." I take a shaky breath. "But I don't like talking about it."
When I finally look back at him, his expression has changed. It’s softened. And there's something in his eyes that looks almost like understanding.
"I'm sorry," he says, and it sounds genuine.
"Me too."
We sit in silence, the fire crackling between us, and for a moment, I forget that he's my captor and I'm his prisoner. Like we're just two people who've both lost the people they loved most.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You can ask. I may not answer."
"Am I ever going to get out of here?"
He pauses and the firelight catches in his eyes, making them look almost silver. "I don't kill innocent people."
"But you do kill people."
"Yes."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"No."
The honesty of it should terrify me. Should send me running from this room.
But it doesn't.
Maybe it's the grief we both carry. Maybe it's the way he's looking at me right now, like in another life this could be something.
Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.
A sound from somewhere in the lodge makes us both pause. A door opening and closing. The sound of voices.
Nikolai's posture shifts slightly, his attention sharpening even as he maintains his relaxed appearance. His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at it.
He stands. "Excuse me for a moment."
He disappears into the hallway, and I hear the low murmur of voices. Male voices. One is Nikolai’s deep rumble. The others I don't recognize.
My wine-fogged brain struggles to make sense of it.
Who would be arriving this late?
A few minutes pass. Five. Maybe ten.
Then Nikolai returns to the doorway, and there's something different in his expression.
"He's here," he says quietly.
I blink at him, confused. "Who?"
"The priest."
The wine makes my thoughts sluggish, and I stare at him blankly. "Why is a priest here?"
"He's presiding over the ceremony."
"Ceremony?" I shake my head slightly, trying to clear the fog. "What ceremony?"
Nikolai's eyes lock onto mine, and I see something in them that makes my stomach drop.
"Our wedding."
I laugh. The sound bubbles up from my chest, slightly hysterical. I could've sworn he just said our wedding.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He moves back into the room, his steps measured and deliberate. When he reaches the table, he picks up my wine glass and holds it out to me.
"Drink up, malyshka," he says, and there's something dark and final in his voice. "We're about to get married."
12
NIKOLAI
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m marrying you.”
She stands so fast she stumbles, and I have to grab onto her to steady her.
“From where I’m standing, you don’t have much choice,” I say.
She shakes me off. “Does the priest know that I’m here against my will? That you’ve kidnapped me?”
“No, and he won’t. Not if you know what is good for you.”
She grits her teeth. “I’m not marrying you.”
"We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice."
"There is no easy way, not for me," she snaps, but she moves toward me anyway. "You can't actually expect me to go through with this."
"I expect exactly that."
Her eyes flash with something dangerous. "Why do you want to marry me?"
"Because I need a wife. And lucky you, you're it."
"That's not a reason." She steps into my space, all fire and fury, her boldness fueled by several glasses of wine. "Why do you need a wife?"