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I look stunning, though even pricey makeup can’t mask the panic in my eyes. On the outside, I’m everything a bride should be, minus the curves. I’m beautiful and adorned with all the finest clothing and jewels. But on the inside, there’s a hurricane brewing. It threatens to break free and destroy everything in its wake. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I fear the sound will get absorbed into the old stone walls and no one will be able to hear me.
As I stare at myself, trying to calm my breathing, I hear a strange clanking noise. I look down to see that something has slid under the door. It’s a thin, metal flask. What the hell?
“You should try this,” a deep voice says through the door. “It’s good for nerves.”
It’s not a voice I immediately recognize. Whoever this man is, he’s either a friend or associate of my father’s. He isn’t a friend to me in any way. And yet…
I grab the flask and twist the top off, gulping down the liquid inside as if it’s water. It is very much not water, nor is it the vodka I was expecting. Russian men always have flasks full of vodka. I sputter against the burning in my throat and try to breathe through my nose. I cough up some of the liquid and see that it’s brown. Scotch? Bourbon?
Whatever it is, the remaining liquid warms me and makes me feel brave. I’m grateful to the strange man on the other side of the door for giving me the liquid courage. It courses through me, giving me the encouragement I need. I can do this. I can go back out there and face this death sentence. I will be brave and honor my commitments.
“You must be really into your future husband.” The man laughs on the other side of the door. “I’ve never seen a bride run so quickly in the opposite direction.”
“Shut up,” I hiss at the man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His deep laughter booms, filling the small room around me. Who does he think he is? Anger rushes through my veins, likely pushed along by the alcohol. I might be panicking, but I’m not going to put up with sass from a faceless wedding guest. I unlock the heavy bathroom door and pull it open to tell off the man who dares to tease me, when I’m met by the cold, blue eyes of Ivan Semyonovich Sidorov.
He’s as handsome as he’s ever been, his dark, espresso hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at me. He’s so tall, his frame intimidating. He’s always intimidated me with his piercing eyes. Intimidated and intrigued. He’s also much older than I expected, lines around his face and peeks of grey in his hair. Being around him I feel surprisingly small.
He doesn’t recognize me, of course. We’ve never met in person. I wasn’t allowed to attend community functions. I’m just the bride at one of the millions of weddings he’ll have to attend this year. But I know him. His face was drilled into my head years ago by my mother.
I think back to those days when I would sit in an uncomfortable wooden chair while she sat in front of me with a stack of pictures. They were all notable men in the community, men I needed to be aware of. Papa would never let me go to his community events, but I was expected to know these men as if they were my own family members.
And there was Ivan Sidorov, head of the Sidorov branch. According to my mother, his father and Papa were friends a long time ago, before Ivan was born. His father’s been dead for years, and Ivan has become even more prominent and important. His name is spoken with hushed reverence these days.
Those eyes are just as terrifying and mesmerizing in person as they were in the photos. Before they were dimmed by the effects of a camera, but even then they unsettled me. Now, they are boring into mine, the full force of his gaze focused on me.
It does nothing to calm my pounding heart, or slow my racing breath. If anything, I feel more panicked now than when I ran out of my bridal suite, though I’m not exactly sure why. Is it that he’s attractive, or that he’s dangerous? He can easily throw me over his shoulder and carry me back to my prison.
The thought of him throwing me over his shoulder doesn’t scare me, though. It excites me in a way I don’t expect. The childish crush I used to carry for Niko does not compare to the way my heart beats against my chest for this man. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I’ve never felt anything like this before.
I’ve been sheltered my entire life. Papa made sure of that. I was escorted to private schools for years, shielded from the real world by stone walls and girls in matching uniforms. Even when I started at Colombia, Papa made sure I always had a bodyguard with me. I went to school and came home. There were no interactions with men ever.
Now I stand in front of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life and push his flask into his hands. He smiles at me, a cheeky, mischievous smile.
“There’s an obvious solution to your problem,” he says, holding me in place with his gaze. “Run away with me.”
CHAPTERTHREE
Ivan
Her face flushes in shock and, perhaps, lust. I’m not blind to the effect I have on women. She’s young and inexperienced, so my attention surely flatters and surprises her. And, of course, what I’m proposing is preposterous. There are a million and one reasons why we absolutely cannot run away together.
For one thing, her father would try to murder me. And he probably would succeed. If he did, though, that would start a war within the organization. Is this girl really worth going to war over? Is she the kind of face that would launch a thousand ships?
My lust-filled brain whispers that she is. She is small and delicate, but I can see the Mikhailov fire behind her eyes. She doesn’t want to be carried away to a young boy who doesn’t know his head from his ass. He will ruin her, waste her potential. He won’t know how to treat her body or nurture that fire in her spirit.
No, she needs a man who would respect her and worship her. Who will claim her as his own and show her with every movement how precious she is to him. She deserves to be mine. Not his. I couldn’t have stopped my request if I’d wanted to. I genuinely want this woman to run away with me.
I’m enraptured by her blonde hair with just the slightest tint of red to it. Her green eyes pull me in, threatening to drown me. Underneath this ridiculous dress is a body that’s just begging to be loved up. I want to leave my fingerprints on every inch of it.
These thoughts are irrational, this behavior is reckless. I’ve seen plenty of Bratva brides break down before their weddings, but I’ve never before been compelled to run after them and proposition them. What is it about this one that pulls me in? Who is this Katrina, and why do I feel like I might die if I don’t touch her?
“Excuse me?” she asks incredulously. “Who do you think you are?”
She laughs, throwing her head back and letting the sound encompass her. It echoes around us in the small space, enveloping me in its warmth. I want to drown in it, to hear nothing but her laugh until the day I die. I want to hear the sounds that come out of her mouth when she unravels at my touch. I want to hear her scream my name.
“Ah, of course, I’m being rude,” I tell her, feigning shame. “Ivan Sidorov. My friends call me Johnny.”
