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“How fucking dare you,” she screams at me. Just as I predicted. Fiery and red-faced. “You sorry sack of shit. You fucking bastard, motherfucking asshole. Just who do you think you are?”
I take a deep breath, centering myself, because if I don’t, I’m going to fuck her right here and now to show her who the boss is.
Motherfucking me.
“Vanya,” I warn her. It’s useless. Her tirade of name-calling is just getting started. Reaching out, I snatch a handful of her dark curls in my fist and yank her toward me. Her tiny fists pummel against my chest uselessly. Like a butterfly in a tornado not ready to be swept away by the winds.
“Let go of me you brute,” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “Why would you do that? How could you…?” Her rant ends in sobs, her fists losing power as she tires herself out. I wait for her to settle and the ire to leave her body. It doesn’t take long and soon she becomes quiet in my hold. She sniffles, eyes downcast as she struggles to regulate her breathing again. I can still hear the little hiccups that are left behind after her tantrum.
It shouldn’t bother me, her breakdown, but it does. I wonder about her strong reaction. I expected her to be angry. To curse me. But this is something different. Darker. Deeper. What hidden trauma lies in the depths of her soul just waiting for me to uncover? I lick my lips in anticipation of peeling this princess back layer by layer until I reach her hot, juicy center.
“Look at me, Vanya,” I order her. She doesn’t obey. Shocker really. Tightening my hold on her hair, I force her head up. Her hazel eyes stare up at me dolefully, wetness makes the golden flakes in her irises shine. Fuck she’s beautiful.
“Why?” she sniffles. “Why would you do that to me?”
“You are mine, little mouse,” I tell her truthfully. There is no use lying to her. “My possession. And I keep track of what I own.”
“I’m not a possession for you to own, Adrian,” she hisses at me, but it’s tinged with sadness. It’s a meeting of fire and ice. A beautiful juxtaposition of hot and cold. One thing I’ve noticed about Vanya is how expressive she is. She doesn’t hide much behind a mask. If she hides anything at all. Unlike Ada, who was a constant bundle of secrets. A contrast to whom I believed her to be.
My deceitful late wife once wrote me letters long before we married. We’d started it in secret, never once meeting face-to-face until fate gave us no other choice. I took her away from everything, showering her with love, but she never wanted that. The first year of our marriage I put work on the back burner to try and spend quality time with one another, but she had luncheons and dinners with charity committees. She spent nights out with friends or her mother.
The woman she pretended was her mother.
Another lie.
Another knife in my back.
She was nothing like the woman in the letters that I had fallen in love with. It had all been a lie from the very beginning. I’d been so blinded by her that I nearly lost my entire empire. My father bled for this empire. He died for the men under his command and there is no way in hell I will let anyone take it away from me.
“You are exactly that, my littlezhena,” I assure her, a seductive purr to my tone. “I own everything. Your pussy. Your ass. Every orgasm you have. Every tear. It’s all mine.”
She stared up at me, mouth agape, taking in my words. I don’t give her time to process or fight back. I simply remove my hand from her hair, moving it to her hand, and pull her along after me.
“No more arguing, Vanya,” I warn her as I hurry us out of the room. “Now come along quietly. We’re already late.”
She snorts derisively. “Going to take me to another parking lot to sell me?”
“Not at all.” I throw a wicked smile. “We’re going wedding dress shopping.”
Twenty-Two
This is hell.
It’s got to be or else I did something very wrong in my past life. Shit. Was I some kind of villain in my past life? Maybe I was Mata Hari in my previous life. That will explain all the shitty luck I have. Shitty luck is what I am blaming for ending up in a lush bridal shop in one of Adrian’s premier hotels. My gracious fiancé had left me standing awkwardly in the doorway of the shop after barely introducing me to his family.
You heard that right.
The devil has a fucking family.
“I just love planning weddings,” Yelena beams at me from beneath her burgundy-colored, wide-brim hat that was amazingly the same exact shade as her sheath dress. I would have suspected that Adrian had hired actors to play his family except it is hard to dispel how eerily alike they all look with their fair skin, deep blue eyes, and soft Russian accents.
Adrian’s own Russian lilt is soft, but still prominent enough to recognize while his sister Yelena’s accent is barely noticeable except in a few words.
“It’s good to finally be included,” her mother sniffs somewhat haughtily, her chin tilting up, eyes narrowed down at me. She’s a good two inches taller in her stenciled Louboutins and unlike her children, her accent is thick and intimidating.
Now I see where Adrian gets his murderous looks from.
“Yeah,” Yelena sighs dejectedly. “It was disappointing that Ada didn’t include us in any of her plans. She said you wouldn’t feel comfortable around us because of our family’s history.” I furrow my brow. I was never involved in any of Ada’s wedding preparation. All she did was hand me a dress and shoes the day of and told me where to stand. I barely saw her after that.
