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Is this a joke? I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said we were moving to Russia.
Laughter, inappropriate and overwhelming, bubbles up my throat. It bursts past my lips and Kirill’s head whips around, his expression thunderous.
Jesus Christ. He’s serious.
“Oh, it’s funny?” He stalks to me and takes hold of my chin. “I thought you might need some persuasion, but I didn’t expect your derision, Duchess. Perhaps you still are stuck up deep down and think you’re better than us.”
He said us. So, the other Devils know? They’re going along with this? None of this feels right.
“This is agreed, then?” My heart sinks for stupid reasons. I thought they respected me a little more than this. To stitch up some sordid proposal from Kirill with all of their agreement? What possible fucked up reasoning do they have behind this being a good idea? “The three of you have decided I’ll marry you?”
His normally smooth brow creases as he takes in what I am saying, then he shakes his head. “No. They don’t have any clue I am here talking to you. This is me asking.” He thumps himself on his sternum, making a point. “I am the one here asking. They don’t know. I am the one offering to make you mine and keep you safe.”
“Kirill…” I trail off, unsure what to say.
It seems crazy to me. I can’t take one of them without the others. It’s not that I don’t lo—I cut myself off—care about Kirill, but I won’t be the person to come between the three of them. What the hell is he thinking? This will tear them apart.
I remember the text he sent. Is that his intention? Why? Dom and Tino are like brothers to him.
“I can do it,” he insists. “My father, our organization, is the most feared in the world. It makes Nataniele and his men look like children playing at being mafia.” His jaw is set and his shoulders squared back. “My father, Grigoriy Stepanov, is a name who puts the fear of God into anyone who wrongs him. He and his men will keep you safe, and as my bride, you will be our most precious jewel. I will work alongside him, rising to be his second, and you’ll bear us beautiful children.”
What the fuck? I stare at him, a sense of doom and panic rising in me. This can’t be happening.
“I don’t want children for a long time,” I tell him.
Never mind that I don’t want kids right now, not when I’m still one myself, but it’s also not that easy for me with my health issues. I’d need to see my neuro before I even remotely contemplated something like that. I think I’d need a full meds review, plus monitoring during the pregnancy.
I have images of being whisked away to some remote Russian facility and locked away to be used as a breeding machine for the Bratva.
“Not right away, obviously,” he says. “But the fact we can eventually give the Bratva beautiful, strong heirs is a bonus.”
I stare at him. My hands are shaking, and I feel sick at what he is saying. I can’t believe this is even happening. I feel like he’s going to whip around with a smile and a laugh and say ‘Gotcha!’ but there is no sign of that happening. He’s deadly serious. He actually thinks I’d marry him and give him babies. This is so fucked up, and the way he is doing it is shitty.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and do my best to keep my tone level. “Kirill, I won’t marry you.”
He laughs, the sound hollow and harsh. “You think we have a choice? My father has said he wants this marriage to happen. He wants you to become a part of our family.”
What the hell?
I take my phone out. “We need to talk to the others.”
Kirill slaps it out of my hand, and I yelp in shock. The phone clatters to the floor.
“Don’t fucking call them.” He folds his arms across his massive chest. “Are they here asking for your hand? Are they stepping up to make you theirs? Are they the ones offering you respectability? No, you are just their slutty little cum-doll.”
Anger explodes within me, bright and jarring. How fucking dare he? “You’re the one who has treated me as a receptacle for his cum the most, Kirill. You. Don’t act as if you’re the one who cares now. You only want this because your father ordered it. You don’t want it for any other reason.”
“That’s not true.”
I stare into his beautiful but cold eyes. “Okay. Do you love me?”
“What?”
“Do. You. Love. Me. Me, Kirill. Not your doll, or your Duchess, but me.”
He scowls. “I think I can say that I do.”
“Oh, that’s sooooo romantic. What’s my favorite color?”
