Page 22 of Brutal Vows

She’s gathering her hair away from her face, combing her fingers through the thick strands. The gesture is so feminine, I swallow at the sudden need to touch her, to hook those fly-aways behind her ear and follow it up with a string of soft kisses along her temple, down to the curve of her jaw.

“What?”

“You’re still cold?” I ask, copping out of what I really want to know as I pad around the bar to pour us drinks. It isn’t an unreasonable question—we’re out of the wind at least and the lounge is cozy.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Good. Can I pour you a drink?”

“Depends on what you’re pouring.” She eyes the row of hard liquor stashed against the wall as she hops up on a barstool and leans on the counter with her elbows. “I gave up drinking for a long time, but when I came back from Russia…it became this thing again…I shouldn’t⁠—”

I suppress a sigh. We aren’t going to ease into conversation over wine tonight. Sounds like she found herself on the slippery slope of a bad habit. Wouldn’t be unusual in our circles, and especially not after having those photos of her appear on the internet. Everybody deals with stress differently, and not always in healthy ways. “Okay. Something non-alcoholic? We’ve got anything you want. Coffee, tea?”

“Just some water, please.”

I fill a glass with bottled water, push it over to her, then help myself to some whiskey.

“That’s not what you wanted to ask though,” she says softly as I take a slow sip, watching her.

“No.” I put my drink down, bracing myself. Get this out of the way. Set the stage for this marriage farce. “I want to know if— I need to know…” I grunt a sigh. “This arranged marriage was negotiated between our brothers, without our input. Don’t know about you, but I didn’t have any say.”

She quirks a brow at me, then shifts in her seat as she looks down. Her knuckles are white with gripping her glass, and her gaze darts around the room looking for the nearest exit, somewhat anxious. Fuck it. I bet she thinks I’m still going to force myself on her tonight. Best cut to the chase here; it’s bad enough as it is.

“I need to know if there’s someone else, Milana.”

“Someone else?” She blinks at me, seeming confused.

“Yes,” I say softly. “Like someone you’re with, but you were forced into this marriage against your will.”

“I—I…this isn’t against my will. I mean, Ivan is a bastard, but he isn’t that cruel. And he definitely wouldn’t let me go with someone he couldn’t control by some means or another.”

Great. Control by some means or another. I bet he had Matteo by the balls and this is how we got here.

“No, there isn’t someone,” she whispers then pauses, dipping deep in thought. “It’s also yes…but not in the way you’d think. Not…” She shrugs and looks down, but her posture has gone rigid. “What about you? I’d hate for you⁠—”

“No-no… but—” She said it. That man is still a fixture in her life. I have to respond, if only to try and save face in this marriage. “It’s a no, but also a yes. Also not in the way you think, either.”

How to admit to her that it’s her without seeming like a fucking creep?

I’m a creep. I don’t know her at all. Obsessed with a warm-blooded, sensual woman who belongs to someone else. Belonged to someone else. She’s mine now. I made vows earlier. Vows I intend to keep. Ever since I slipped that ring on her finger, my subconscious has been working overtime. What would it take to make her fall for me? To make her mine as my wife in every sense of the word? To make her forget him and fall in love, have that look in her eyes…for me?

Just once. I need that look just once, and I’ll die a happy man.

11

MILANA

He’s staring at me, his gaze all-consuming, but I can’t read his eyes. They hold something so soft and tender, I have to look down, unable to stomach the feeling he’s thinking of another woman. That he cares enough to ask me if there was someone else before we were forced into this arranged marriage—a transaction I orchestrated—shows me more of his character than anything else. And I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel safer than I thought I’d be. If he is considerate like this, he isn’t a monster.

Time will tell.

I glance away through the windows, gripping my glass of water. Crap. We’re moving. Looks like I won’t be giving my husband the slip anytime soon. First the surprise of his motorcycle which made me so anxious—I mean, if I die in an accident, what will happen to Masha? And now this—an endless ocean between me and freedom. This doesn’t bode well.

Luca Scalera didn’t sit around idle on the two days he had before our wedding. He made arrangements, romantic ones at that, and now I feel like a bitch. Using a man like this, planning to pickpocket his wallet and make a break for it, going as far as his credit cards would let me.

I’ve underestimated my brother’s new alliance. “Did you charter this yacht?”

“No, she’s mine.”