Page 30 of Brutal Vows

“I’ll see what Milana knows,” I say, finally having a real reason to barge into my wife’s cabin. “Keep me posted.”

15

MILANA

There’s a knock on my cabin door. I’m not ready. I slept fitfully last night, only falling asleep after I sent Masha a message telling her I couldn’t talk for fear of someone eavesdropping, but desperately needed to hear her voice.

She called. It was a short conversation.

All’s fine.

I wasn’t followed.

I came back and the van is still parked exactly where it was when I left days ago.

She’s being watched. Photographed. Those images dropped by drones into Ivan’s compound. Somehow, she managed to slip out unnoticed in the dead of night and escape to her parents’ hunting lodge and spend some time there, but after years of nobody showing any interest in Masha Baykova, she’s being watched.

It’s all my fault.

The knock comes again and then the doorknob turns, and with it my stomach. It’s locked.

“Milana,” Luca calls.

“Yes.”

“Open up. We need to talk.”

“I just⁠—”

“I don’t wait, princess. Open the door.”

The tone in his voice says everything: he’ll break the door down without hesitating.

With a groan, I pad over, unlock the door, and swing it open. “I overslept and just got out of the shower.”

My wet hair still sticks to my shoulders, water dripping. I have a towel around my body, twisted tight above my breasts, and nothing else.

He takes in my face, scanning every feature presented without makeup, clocking the dark circles under my eyes. “I brought you some coffee. Breakfast is ready if you want any.”

“Thank you.” No word of last night’s mess. How rude I was to him.

I reach to take the small tray with the French press from him, but he walks inside without asking. My treacherous body makes space for him to come inside.

“I’m not dressed.”

“I noticed,” he says, putting the tray down at the foot of the bed.

As he straightens, his gaze hooks on me again, and this time, he does a top-to-toe inspection, like an airport body scanner. When his gaze slides up my legs, my heart stutters over a few beats as heat spreads in my core, flushing my skin. I hate that he makes me feel like this with a single look.

“Can I⁠—”

“Your brother called.”

Unease zaps through me. “Ivan? Why?”

Luca shoves his hands in his pockets, fisting them. “Apparently, Gabriella is a stolen bride. Promised to another Russian when she was only thirteen. She’s been marked—branded in some way or another—and I need you to tell me everything you know about that type of shit that goes on in the Bratva.”

His words are so out of left field, I blink at him.