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“If you try to force things before I’m ready, I’ll be your widow, because I’ll kill you,” she hissed, leaning harder on my throat. “You wanted to be in a mafia family, so this is what you get.”
I didn’t think telling her how cute she was would de-escalate and I could barely get air through my windpipe which she was currently crushing. There was nothing left but to get the upper hand so I quickly flipped her off me and onto her back. Grabbing her wrists before she could punch me again, I pinned them to the plush carpet and straddled her to keep her legs from thrashing.
Her green eyes flared as I leaned down and kissed her, forcing her lips open and sweeping my tongue between them. She bucked underneath me, then softened, sighing as she melted against me and gave herself over to the kiss. I let her hands go and she ran her fingers through my hair, opening her mouth to me. I never expected our shared passion to ignite quickly and burn hot.
Agonizing pain ripped through my groin as she brought her knee up hard and fast, shoving my shoulders away at the same time. Jumping to her feet, she stared down at me, passion replaced by fury.
“I said I’d feel more comfortable sleeping apart for the first few nights,” she said, turning on her heel and marching toward the door.
Where in the hell had this Karine come from? “I thought you were sweet,” I croaked, curling up and trying to get past the worst of the pain.
Did I hear her laugh at me as she yanked open the door? “Welcome to the Bratva,” she called, slamming it behind her.
Chapter 4 - Karine
My heart pounded as I scrambled out of the master bedroom and into the next one down the hall, locking the door behind me and leaning against it until I caught my breath. I slid to the floor and put my head against my knees, flexing my aching hand.
Oh my God, I just beat the crap out of my new husband. Would this be the shortest marriage in history? Would I make some kind of record book? When I was finally able to get my heart rate under control, I stood up and made my way to the bed, flopping on top of the covers and staring at the closed door as if it might explode inward at any second, which it very well might have.
Was Roman going to come after me?
Did I want him to?
Kicking angrily at the midnight blue tufted bedspread, I got under the linen sheets and propped myself against the pillows, too wired to begin to think about sleep. I was furious with myself for losing control, for wanting Roman so badly even when he’d been such a complete ass. Confusion about how he could have gotten under my skin so quickly warred with the confusion about how he could so easily drive me so wild.
God, I’d really wanted him. It was part of why I’d put on the honeymoon negligee when my brain screamed at me to put on sweats. I loved the feel of his mouth claiming mine, the way his rock-hard body had pushed against me in all the right places. That was all perfectly fine, since he was my husband now.
So why was I locked up all alone after kicking the stuffing out of him? A groan seeped out of me, full of embarrassment and regret.
If only I could get Demian’s cruel words about being bought and paid for, no better than any shipment of goods, out of my head. None of that was true, was it?
Duty and loyalty were two traits I prided myself in having. My father had always given me everything and he’d do anything for me, and the same went for me. If he’d asked me to marry a toothless old drunk who reeked of cabbage, I would have done it without question. Because that was how much I loved and trusted my father. How much I would do for the betterment of our family business.
And he hadn’t ordered me to marry a stinky old drunk but had instead fixed me up with a man he had to have seen me eyeing with interest. There was no way not to notice how handsome Roman Anishin was, and there was no way Papa didn’t notice my attraction to him. If Roman hadn’t also been as successful and useful as he was, then the wedding would have never happened, but the fact it did was still an apparent effort on Papa’s part to make sure I was happy, wasn’t it?
I wasn’t just a commodity, was I? Now that everything was so real, and I was alone with that big, virile man who both scared and enraged me as well as ignited me in a way I never dreamed possible, my absolute loyalty didn’t seem so cut and dried.
If I gave in too easily to Roman, I might be setting myself up to be under a tyrant’s thumb for the rest of my life. And I so wanted a happy marriage where I was an equal to my husband. That was why I was locked in here by myself.
There had to be a balance of power and this was my small way of getting some of my own, even if it meant ignoring my very real desire. The more I worked it out in my head, the more my extreme mortification turned back into anger at Roman’s actions. That was a lot easier to deal with than unbridled lust, anyway. Just because I was his wife now, didn’t mean he owned me. Just because the way he declared I was his made me shiver and gave me an ache between my thighs didn’t mean I had to jump at his every whim.
I had some say in things and meant for them to be heard.
The longer I stared at the door, the more unreasonably angry I got that Roman wasn’t pounding it down and demanding what was his. What was wrong with me? Did I want him to come in here, or did I want him to respect the boundaries I’d requested? Hell, the boundaries I had demanded with my fists.
I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it all, and chalked it up to the long wedding day and the weeks of harried preparation leading up to it. Not totally sure why, I got out of bed and unlocked the door, listening with my ear pressed to it for a few seconds. Nothing. He was probably already fast asleep. I crawled back into the big guest bed, half wishing he’d come after me. Snapping off the bedside table light, I curled up under the covers and eventually fell asleep, alone on my honeymoon night.
The next morning when I woke up, still alone, I didn’t know how to feel about it. I had to face Roman eventually, and it was probably better to get it over with as soon as possible. There was no clock in the guest bedroom, but the light outside the window showed it was at least midmorning. I must have slept like a log after being sleep-deprived.
Thankfully, he wasn’t in the master bedroom when I peeked around the door, and I hurried to get dressed, picking out a simple pair of shorts and a tank top. The look didn’t say anything in particular, not like putting on the slinky nightgown did last night. Still, I wanted to look nice, so I took a few minutes to brush out the tangled mess on top of my head, quickly braiding it. Then I found my overnight bag and dug out my makeup, and dabbed on some blush and lip gloss. At that point I was truly dawdling, nervous about how he’d react when we faced each other again.
“Time to eat crow,” I muttered.
Downstairs, I found Roman sitting at the long granite bar in the open-plan kitchen, his face turned away as he calmly ate a plate of scrambled eggs while he listened to a phone call. He swiped at a tablet while he answered whoever was on the call, then aimed his fork at the eggs again. Such simple movements, yet I was mesmerized by the way his forearms rippled when he reached for his coffee, along with the way his t-shirt stretched across his bulging biceps. The man was ripped.
He barely glanced at me before getting up, still talking on the phone as he went out the sliding door into the garden. Okay, fair enough. He was on a call, and maybe an important one he couldn’t interrupt. I poked through the refrigerator and pantry, then the cupboards, trying to get acclimated to my new home that had been furnished and completely stocked by people my father hired. They’d asked me my preferences for fabrics and colors, but I’d been so busy with the wedding that I’d told them to just make it nice.
And they had. The kitchen had gleaming stainless steel appliances, and the granite was a warm cream color that worked well with the dark wooden cabinets. The kitchen table and chairs were simple and sleek but with cheerful, bright red cushions that matched the framed poppy paintings on the walls. I pulled a loaf of bread from the pantry which was an organizer’s dream full of glass jars and neatly labeled drawers. Might as well make toast while I waited to grovel to my husband.
