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He didn’t like her silence. Neither did he like that her hand trembled or her complexion was so pale. Was she that much put off by having to marry him? And why did he even care? It was the one basic question, the red line in his trail of thoughts: why did he give a damn about her feelings? He should enjoy this moment, the stillness in her eyes, how she looked as if she had finally accepted that her fate was sealed. She knew, like any other woman in their world, that this was it. There was no such thing as a Bratva divorce. She was tied to him for the rest of her days. If she were to flee from him, it would mean her death. Once you were in their world, there was no exit door. Even if he decided to let her go, Kristoff wouldn’t. They protected their own. And a woman divorcing him could easily turn into an ex-wife informer.
When he walked past the corridor that led to the wine cellar, he felt Elena go rigid by his side. He barely kept himself from snarling at her that he wished he could throw her back inside. Sadly, that was no longer an option.
He was at a crossroads. He realized he couldn’t continue being Elena’s warden. To a Vor, his wife was sacred and deserved respect. Wives were considered the backbone of a family. Which meant he could no longer treat her as a prisoner. There was a huge difference between locking up a random woman and locking up a woman who carried his name.
Thing was, Elena was anything but a traditional mafia wife. She would try to escape again. It was who she was, and she’d succeed too, the witch.
Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to do with his bride. He looked at his watch. Only forty-five minutes left.
He laughed as he led her upstairs and into her previous room.
She rounded on him, hands on her hips. “What’s so funny?”
He locked the door and took off his jacket. “And here I thought the cat had your tongue.”
“I was told to shut up,” she said stiffly.
“When do you ever do what I tell you to?”
Her eyes turned into tiny bullets. He wasn’t sure why he was picking another fight with her, but he needed it. Badly. This could be their last night together and while he loathed her, his body didn’t get that message. It wanted her. Badly. He wanted to bend her over the desk chair and pound into her until the entire house could hear her moan. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and ride her until she screamed his name from the top of her lungs. He wanted that bastard Vasili to know he could never lay a finger on her again because she was Viking’s property.
She didn’t take the bait. She dropped onto the bed, her hands demurely placed on her lap.
He didn’t like her defeated look. It wasn’t the Elena he knew. Then again, he’d never really known her, had he? The girl he had known would have never stabbed him in the back. Still, he didn’t like it that she just sat there, her shoulders hunched, eyes staring outside. There had been a time he had pictured this moment every day. That he’d dreamed about putting a ring on her finger, carrying her over the threshold of their house, with her dressed in white.
But here they were. She was dressed in jeans that hugged her curves, and a simple white blouse. He hadn’t allowed Katya to visit Elena, to prepare her for what was to come. Part of it had been his vindictive side; a clueless enemy was easier to control and manipulate. Part of it was because he’d been afraid she’d find a way to get out of their marriage.
Maybe Kristoff was right. Maybe she truly was his kryptonite, because he couldn’t explain why else he enjoyed the fact that he’d own her for the rest of her life. Never before had he wanted to own another woman. Never before had he tolerated a woman around him for more than a few hours after they’d fucked, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He enjoyed the idea of breaking her, little by little. Maybe this was for the better. Now he had all the time in the world to get back at her.
He took off his dress jacket. Never one for formal clothing, he would have refused it, had Kristoff not insisted on it. The guy was big on appearances in front of the Pakhan. Had their case not been urgent, Kristoff surely would have sent someone out for a wedding dress.
Technically, it was their wedding night. In reality, his bride had looked into every nook and cranny of the room, everywhere except at him. And that bothered the hell out of him. Then, she did worse—she strode to the window without giving him another glance.
In two short strides, he stood behind her and turned her back around to face him.
“What are you doing?” Good. She sounded aggravated.
“I’m looking at the property I just put my name on.”
When her fist rose, he grabbed her hand.
“I’m no man’s property! Least of all yours.”
“Wrong. You are all mine, baby. For the rest of your life.”
She made a derisive sound. “Obviously someone has never heard of divorce.”
“There’s no divorce in the Bratva. Only till death do us part.” He didn’t know what came over him, but the next moment their lips were locked. She pushed at his chest, but he ignored it. He pushed her toward the bed, and then dropped her onto it.
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed into slits. He didn’t give her time to jump up, instead falling on top of her.
“Get off me!”
“No.” He liked where he was; right between her legs. He grabbed her knees and pressed them apart. She slapped his arm, though he barely felt the punch of her tiny hand. All her anger did was make her chest heave and draw attention to her breasts.
Her perfect, perky breasts. With one tug, he ripped open the buttons of her shirt. Buttons scattered all over the bedsheet. A black lace bra that barely contained her breasts came into view.
“Mercy…” He couldn’t contain the awe in his voice. All that was needed to rip away her bra was one quick pull. Mounds of perfect flesh bounced in his face as he took in her scent.
