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The beginning is fast-paced. Lu writes action. Cool.
The story is simple but somewhat brutal. This Russian Bratva guy, Konstantin Orlov, kills a rival and takes his daughter as a debt payment, saying she’ll be his wife. Obviously, he’s not picky, though she’s extremely beautiful. He whisks her away to Irkutsk, Russia, and locks her in his country estate.
#Morallygrey seems to be the trending color among romance readers. And the guy, Konstantin Orlov, is “darker than the deepest pits of hell,” as his captive, Eva, describes.
He’s obviously an exception among the grumpy-serial-killer-looking Russian guys, because he’s extremely hot, and so are his two brothers and five bodyguards. All GQ.
Lu must know that Russian Bratva is thug culture at best. But alright, this is fiction. And—I chuckle because the story is quite entertaining—Konstantin went to Oxford University. This must’ve happened somewhere between him killing dozens of people and blowing up rival mafia syndicates overseas. He must really need a bachelor’s degree for that. Could’ve bribed the Oxford University dean since he’s the richest and most powerful man in the world—and that, my friends, is public knowledge.
My brain is on fire.
Lu! Help me out here!
What? Is? This?
But then we get closer acquainted with the female lead, Eva, who our brutal Konstantin calls “katsiónak,” which means kitten in Russian. Cute.
Eva is a harmless sunshine, extremely horny, drop-dead gorgeous and has a master’s degree, which I have a feeling will be irrelevant in this story.
Andkatsionakgrows claws one chapter at a time.
My kidnapper and future husband leans on the doorframe, tonguing his cheek, arms folded across his broad chest. His eyes, hypnotic yet cold and dark, narrow on me.
“Oh, yeah, sweetheart? Tell me again how much you hate me.”
The vase I throw at him shatters into pieces against the wall, only a few feet from his head.
Yet he doesn’t move. The corner of his gorgeous mouth curls into a smirk. It’s his reflex to everything I do around him, mostly getting angry.
There are dozens of reasons for my hate.
He burned down my house, killed my father, took me captive. And now, has stripped me naked and studies me like a rare specimen with sardonic amusement and that low raspy murmur, “I own you, Eva. You are mine. Mine to play with. Mine to torment. Mine to break.”
That murmur crawls under my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
But my body has a mind of its own, tingling under his scorching eyes, twisting on the inside at the approving gaze that lazily trails over my bare body that silently whimpers with the unknown before arousal.
“I hate you,” I hiss, despising myself for such a reaction. “If I’m meant to plunge into the darkness of your bloody kingdom and this God-forsaken snow cavern, I’ll make sure you regret the day you laid your eyes on me.”
His arrogant brow cocks at my words.
He pushes off the doorframe and takes slow steps toward me, the vase shards crackling under his boots.
Every cell in my body lights at his proximity.
He stops right in front of me, lifts his hand, and brushes my bare nipples with the back of his fingers, eliciting goosebumps I can’t hide.
His smirk deepens—the beast notices everything.
“You think what happened in the last days is darkness, Eva? You haven’t felt it yet. It’s only just creeping up to your feet. But when it touches you”—his hand slides lower, much lower—“oh,katsiónak, when itdoestouch you”—his fingers slide between my legs, grazing my sensitive folds as he brings his gorgeous lips to my ear—“you might never want to go back to light.”
They say those who have nothing to lose are the most fearless.
I’ve been stripped of everything that was ever dear to me.
I won’t give up so easily.
If I go down, I’m dragging my soon-to-be husband with me, all the way to hell.
