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I shake my head. “I’ll be late. Karlin will lose his temper.”
“You should’ve thought about that when you decided to dress like a teenager,” he barks.
God, I hate my life.
Rushing up the stairs, I change into tight-fitting leather pants, a cream long-sleeve blouse, and high heels. I grab the same fur coat I wore for the past two dates and run out of my room.
When I hear Karlin’s voice downstairs, I almost trip but catch my balance.
No use in breaking your neck on the stairs.
Darting into the living room, I’m breathless and probably look a mess.
Mr. Aslanhov’s eyes flick to me before they settle on Karlin. “You’re not married to Tiana yet. I don’t appreciate you damaging her. Keep your fists to yourself.”
Oh, Jesus.
A calculating expression forms on Karlin’s face as he looks from Mr. Aslanhov to me. “I think we should discuss the deal again. Taking a child for a bride doesn’t look favorable for me.”
Mr. Aslanhov takes a threatening step toward Karlin. “We signed a contract. Are you willing to go back on it and to lose your foothold in Russia? It’s only a matter of time before Viktor Vetrov orders your death. This deal is your last chance to make peace with the bratva.”
The men are caught in a stare-off that makes tension build in the air.
I should’ve kept quiet. God, I don’t want to be responsible for starting a war.
“I’m sorry,” the words burst from me. “I overreacted. Karlin has been nothing but polite. I’ll do better to be the wife he needs.”
Nothing on this planet compares to when you betray yourself. The sick feeling in my gut is crippling, and my conscience revolts, demanding that I stand up for myself.
A triumphant smile spreads over Karlin’s face as he gestures to me with a wave of a hand. “I think I’m owed an apology.”
Mr. Aslanhov looks like he’s a second away from killing Karlin, but instead, he mutters, “I apologize for the misunderstanding. You know how dramatic a woman can be.”
How much power does Karlin Makarova hold that Mr. Aslanhov is going to such great lengths to secure this deal?
A ball of ice settles in my stomach as I realize Misha might not be able to stop this wedding from happening. He’s just an enforcer for the bratva, where Mr. Aslanhov is one of the higher-up bosses.
I’m grabbed by my bicep again and hauled out of the house. Dread pours into my heart because I have no idea what Karlin is going to do after the fiasco in the living room.
He can’t kill you.
You’ve survived the hell in the orphanage, you can survive a couple of slaps. It’s just nine more days.
I climb into the car, my body tense as I brace myself for whatever’s going to happen.
Karlin slides in beside me, and I cringe closer to the door. Instead of beating me, he orders the driver, “Take us home.”
No restaurant?
No people to witness as he beats the shit out of me.
Crap.
My hands grip my purse, and for a moment, I think about yanking my phone out and calling Misha.
It will only make things worse. Karlin is more powerful than my brother.
I could try to run away, but I don’t have any money, and facing the harsh winter on the streets isn’t an option.
Call Armani. He seems to be a reasonable man. Maybe he can think of a way to help you.
Shit. Somehow I’ll just have to get through tonight in one piece, then I’ll call Armani and ask him what he thinks I should do.
Chapter 9
Tiana
We pull up to a mansion that looks like something Count Dracula would live in. It’s dark and somber, and somehow the approaching winter chill feels even colder as I step out of the vehicle.
It doesn’t look like a home but a prison.
I follow Karlin into the house. The guards leave us, heading in the opposite direction of the living room. Karlin pours himself a tumbler of vodka, and as I watch him sip on the drink, my stomach turns into a burning ball of nerves.
The tension of waiting for him to beat me for complaining to Mr. Aslanhov is unbearable.
I glance around at the brown leather couches and heavy wooden coffee table. There’s a furry mat made of bear skin, the head still attached, and the mouth open to display its teeth.
“You have a lovely home,” I whisper the lie, hoping if I come across as pleasant and submissive, he won’t hurt me for the crap that went down with Mr. Aslanhov earlier tonight.
Suddenly the tumbler is thrown at me, the glass hitting my head. The sting is sharp, making me gasp in shock. The cold vodka soaks my hair, but it’s fear that drenches my body.
I stumble a step back, my hand flying up to where the glass hit me. My fingers tremble as they probe the tender spot.
