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“The next time you keep me waiting, you’ll crawl out of the house,” he threatens.
Paralyzing fear pours through my veins. It’s more potent than the fear I feel when I’m in Viktor Vetrov’s presence.
I stare at his cruel face, and not seeing an ounce of humanity in his eyes, the fear multiplies.
“Do you fucking understand me?” he hisses.
My lips are dry, and my throat aches as I struggle to get the words out. “Y-yes, sir.”
I’m shoved away from him and fall against the door as the vehicle turns right onto the main road. My eyes dart to the front seats, but the guards are unbothered by what just happened.
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I hunch my shoulders and keep as still as possible. Karlin pulls his phone out and ignores me for the rest of the ride.
In the silence filling the car, my heart shrivels as I realize I might have to marry this man if Misha can’t stop the arrangement made between Mr. Aslanhov and Karlin.
I should feel some kind of disappointment, but all I feel is the usual empty acceptance.
I just accepted it when the orphanage made us work like slaves for the meager food they provided.
I just accepted it when we had to fight the other kids like savage animals so they wouldn’t take the few possessions we had.
I just accepted it that as a woman in the bratva, I’d never have a voice of my own.
And now I’ll accept I don’t have a say in who I marry.
This is my life, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.
When the G-Wagon stops in front of a restaurant in a rundown part of town, I quickly get out of the vehicle.
I lay my hand against my throat, the feel of his painful hold still there.
I’ve been beaten many times in my life, so physical abuse is nothing new to me, but still, it chips away at my soul.
If Misha were here, he’d beat the shit out of Karlin.
Karlin grabs hold of my bicep again and yanks me toward the restaurant. From the outside, it looks like a place where criminals like to hang out and not an establishment where I’ll be safe.
Stepping inside, the lights are dimmed, and many tables are occupied by men who’ve been hardened by the bratva life.
An uneasy feeling curls around my spine, and I keep my eyes lowered, so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with a man.
I’m shoved toward a chair with an impatient order. “Sit.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Karlin to stop manhandling me, but not knowing how he’ll react, I suppress the urge to stand up for myself.
A woman who looks more like a stripper than a waitress comes to our table.
“Hi, Mr. Makarova,” she purrs. “Will it be your usual order?”
I watch as she practically eye-fucks him. Karlin gives her a raunchy smile and slaps her ass. “Please, Nina. Get the same for the girl.”
The waitress doesn’t even look at me and walks off to order whatever Karlin’s usual is.
No. There’s no way I’ll settle for becoming this bastard’s wife. I’ll call Viktor Vetrov myself if I have to and beg him to arrange a marriage for me with someone else. Screw owing the head of the bratva a favor. Anything is better than a life sentence with this vulgar man.
Karlin’s harsh gaze settles on me as if I’m nothing but a piece of shit stinking up his air.
“This marriage will only be on paper. You’ll cook and clean to earn your keep and stay out of my way.”
Surprise ripples through me. “On paper?”
“A bag of bones that’s nothing but a spineless mouse doesn’t do it for me. I’ll find my pleasure elsewhere. This marriage is only happening so the bratva will allow me to trade in Russia without breathing down my neck.”
So the marriage won’t be consummated? I’m not misunderstanding what he’s saying, right?
It offers me a glimmer of hope. At least I won’t have to sleep with the man.
Wow. I never thought I’d be happy to have an unfaithful husband.
But then I realize what it means, and I ask, “Won’t we have children?”
Karlin makes a scoffing sound. “I don’t want children with a weak and pathetic little girl like you.”
His words hit hard, and the prospect of a future without children fills me with hopelessness. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, so I could give my children the life I never had.
Suddenly a plate with a massive steak and huge wallop of mashed potatoes is placed in front of me. My stomach lurches at the sight of the oil and blood pooling around the barely cooked meat.
God, it looks disgusting.
Karlin picks up his cutlery, and pointing his knife at me, he mutters, “Eat.”
I take hold of my fork and scoop up a bite of the mashed potatoes.
