Artyom lets out a harsh breath, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry Cal, Maxim has the legal and underworld right to claim the blood debt.”
I force a brave smile even as my chest feels like it’s caving in. “It’s fine,” I lie. “Then I’ll marry him.”
We’re silent for a moment before Artyom breaks it. “How are you? Is he treating you well?”
I nod, trying hard to speak despite the lump in my throat. “Yes.”
“If he isn’t Cal…”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Artyom.”
Just then, Maxim reappears in the living room. “Alright, time to wrap up this little reunion, I need to have breakfast with my fiancée. Sorry Artyom, I’d have invited you to join, but my cook only made breakfast for two.”
Artyom looks like he’s about to burst from anger, his knuckles are white from squeezing them. “Calina is going to marry you, but if you as much hurt a hair on her head…”
“Please save your threats for someone who cares,” Maxim dismisses him as he comes beside me and smoothly wraps one strong arm around my waist, pulling me against his side. The moment his hand settles on my hip, that same electric jolt shoots through my body again, hot, unwanted, and impossible to ignore. I stiffen but don’t pull away.
“It’s good we’re all on the same page,” Maxim says calmly. “I don’t want to drag this out. I want the wedding as soon as possible. I want her as my wife.”
Artyom’s eyes flash with barely contained rage, but he nods tightly. “One month.”
“One week,” Maxim counters.
“Two weeks,” my brother says, voice like steel.
Maxim exhales through his nose, then shrugs. “Fine. Two weeks it is.”
In that moment, reality dawns on me. In two weeks, I am going to become Maxim Orlov’s wife.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maxim
This is really happening.
I’m marrying Calina Morozova. I’m allying myself with the most powerful Bratva family in New York.
My reign is about to become ironclad. No more whispers. No more doubts about whether the orphan deserves the Orlov throne. If I had my way, I would drag her to the altar tonight.
After her brother left, I sit at the head of the table and watch her across from me. She keeps pushing the food around her plate, barely eating a bite. The silence between us is thick.
She still refuses to wear any of the clothes I had brought for her.
Instead, she’s stubbornly sitting there in the same dress from last night, the thin material clinging to her curves like a second skin. The straps hang delicately over her shoulders, exposing soft skin, the hem riding higher every time she shifts in her chair.
She looks distractingly beautiful.
I bought those clothes on purpose. I knew it would irritate her. Because something about provoking that fire in her has become… entertaining.
“Is the food not to your liking?” I ask.
She ignores me completely, eyes fixed on her plate.
“Calina.”
Her head snaps up, fire flashing her eyes. “What?”
“When I call your name or ask you a question, you respond.”
