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17
PAIGE
We’re checked out of the hospital and in his car before I can even begin to process what Misha just said to me.
“We’re going to getmarried?”
I repeat the words slowly, hoping that they’ll start to make more sense this time around.Nope.Better luck next time.
“I’m sorry. Have you gone insane?”
“You’re pregnant,” he points out. “With my child. Thus, we’re getting married.”
“What kind of archaic nonsense is that?” I scoff. “We aren’t going to get married and play House because of a one-night-stand.”
“No. We’re going to get married because of a one-night-stand that resulted in you carrying my child.”
I place a hand over my stomach. “You don’t own this baby.”
“I own everything,” he snaps, his voice shattering like glass on cement.
My heart hammers in my chest as I realize that Misha is completely serious.
And completely capable of getting exactly what he wants.
“Just let me—oh, for God’s sake, I’ll leave you alone,” I say, hating the plea in my tone. “I don’t want child support or your involvement or anything like that. You don’t have to… I mean, why do you even want to do this?”
“I am the don of the Orlov Bratva,” he snarls with a ferocity that terrifies me. “That baby in your belly is my heir. I have a responsibility now, both to him and to you. My child will not be illegitimate.”
Don? Bratva? Heir?That catch in his voice that seems to scream that he doesn’t want this bullshit forced wedding any more than I do?
Too many things to count jump out at me, so I focus on the part I can understand.
“You’re talking as though we live in, like, Victorian England. Babies are born out of wedlock all the time. They aren’t shunned by society. We don’t paint a big scarlet letter on their chest and leave them in the woods to be eaten by wolves.”
“I don’t give a fuck about society,” he growls. “I give a fuck about my family’s rules. About my family’s honor.”
“But I’m not part of your family!”
His gray eyes might as well be ice. “You will be.”
This can’t be happening. This cannot possibly be happening.
But I’m too exhausted to argue. Whether it’s from the accident or the pregnancy or both, I slump back in the seat and close my eyes.
Before I know it, the car comes to a stop. I open my eyes, but Misha is already out of the vehicle. A second later, my door opens. I look up, expecting armed goons or the Grim Reaper there to drag me out kicking and screaming.
It’s just him, though. Although arguably, that might be worse.
He offers me his hand and those eyes glisten like molten silver. I ignore it and get out on my own. I’m trying to rally up counterarguments when I freeze, my gaze shifting to the palatial modern mansion behind him.
“Wherearewe?” I breathe.
It’s a castle. That’s the only word for it, no matter how many times I rack my brain for alternatives.
Crushed gravel raked into perfect lines leads up to a broad marble staircase. Beyond that is an intimidatingly massive facade of rough-hewn gray sandstone. Immaculate hedges, dark and thorny, surround the foot of the building in one unbroken green wall. Above those is one double-height window after the next, each trimmed in black metal. The house wraps around me like two arms in a hug I never asked for. Both the east and west wings rise into needle-sharp spires at the top, while a glass bubble arcs over the atrium and sucks sunlight greedily into the belly of the home. I stand and gawk for a long time until my neck hurts from craning back for so long.
“Home sweet home,” Misha drawls sarcastically. “I imagine it’s a slight upgrade over your current hovel.”
