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But no. Larson or Vika could come out at any minute, and besides, she’s hungry. What I want to do to her—minus the fucking—will have to wait until after the breakfast and the wedding.
Clenching my teeth, I stand up and return to my seat, where I thoroughly wipe my hands on a napkin, trying not to look at her lest I lose control.
Trying and failing. My eyes keep straying to her, taking in the way she delicately presses the tips of her fingers under her eyes, likely checking if I’ve smeared her mascara. I haven’t—only her foundation and whatever other crap was on her skin have suffered—but she looks unsettled anyway. I’ve thrown her off balance, I realize as I watch her pat her face, trying to distribute the sunblock more uniformly over her cheeks and jaw, to blend it with what remains of her makeup.
My Alinyonok doesn’t like looking imperfect in front of me—or more likely, anyone.
I tuck away that observation, adding it to my arsenal of facts about her. It’s an incomplete arsenal, one that’s based on remote observation rather than first-hand knowledge. Though I feel like I know her and understand her, the reality is that we’ve had very few in-person interactions over the years.
In fact, we’ve spent more time together over the past twenty-four hours than in the entire eleven years preceding them.
She begins eating, and I do the same, making quick work of three eggs and a portion of smoked Chilean sea bass with a side of fresh cucumbers. She is only a quarter way through her grechka by the time I’m done. I pour myself another cup of coffee, and then I sip it, watching her, enjoying the graceful arc of her hand as she brings each spoonful of grain to her mouth, the flexing movement of her finely defined jaw as she chews, the ripple of her swan-like throat as she swallows. Before meeting her, I didn’t know it was possible to be fascinated by something as mundane as a person eating, but at that dinner in her father’s penthouse eleven years ago, I found my eyes returning to her again and again as she picked at her plate, her beautiful face set in the mutinous expression I’ve since gotten to know so well.
She hadn’t yet turned fourteen that evening, and I, a grown man of almost nineteen, found myself mesmerized, utterly entranced by her.
She looks up from her meal, catching me staring, and pink color sweeps over her face again. I don’t look away. Why bother? She knows how I feel. My fascination with her that started that evening has grown into an all-consuming obsession over the years, one I’ve given up any hope of fighting.
“You know, you never told me why,” she says, pushing away her half-finished bowl.
“Why what?” I ask, eyeing her over the rim of my cup.
Her voice is tight and a little husky. “Why you fixated on me.”
“Does there need to be a reason?”
Her lashes sweep down, veiling the gem-like glitter of her eyes. “For a normal person, yes. In less than an hour, you’re going to bind us together in marriage. So I want to know why. Why me? Why not some woman who actually wants you?”
“You want me.” I hold up my palm when she looks like she’s about to argue. “It may be only a physical desire for now, but it’ll grow into more.”
I’m confident of that.
Her eyes widen. “You’re deluded. You actually think this”—she flaps her hand over the table between us—“is going to turn into some kind of love story?”
“Why not?”
She gapes at me, then gives a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You actually think you can force me to care about you.”
“Of course I can.” I set my cup down and lean in, capturing her gaze. “We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, Alinyonok. Each night, I’m going to give you pleasure, and each day, I will take care of your every need. I will fill you with my seed, and eventually, you will birth our child. Maybe more than one. We will be a family, and you will grow to care for me—because I’m not giving you a choice. Not any longer.” And as she stares at me, her face pale, I add softly, “Fight me all you wish, my beauty, but you won’t win. I’ll make sure of that.”
Chapter 3
Alina
My hands are still shaking as I flip through the row of dresses hanging in the walk-in closet, looking for a white one. I couldn’t eat a single bite after Alexei’s ruthless declaration, and my stomach feels cold and hollow again, my insides twisted in knots. I wish I had a joint or two, but there’s nothing here to take the edge off the anxiety consuming me.
