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Three Nights Ago - Andrey’s Apartment
“Welcome to your new home, princess,” Andrey says as the elevator to the penthouse ascends in one of Boston’s newest and most sought-after apartment buildings. “Tomorrow, I’ll have someone take you to buy some new clothes.” He smiles at me. “You’ll need to pick out a wedding dress too for our wedding that will take place the morning of your twenty-first.”
I remain silent as I’m still reeling at finding out Andrey is the man I dubbed Quasimodo. The son of Ivan Belov, who was the voice on the other end of my father’s conference call earlier that day, discussing my engagement. An engagement that had been set when I was fucking three years old and was still trying to eat earthworms.
I have to stop shaking my head or pinching myself, trying to wake up from the nightmare. But it’s not a dream, just the story of my fucking life. My life has been one giant gilded cage and an overbearingly suffocatingly protective father that has controlled every aspect of my fucking life: my education, my social circle, and now, my husband. Fuck they even had the date of my wedding planned.
Rubbing my temples, I move like a zombie through Andrey’s super modern apartment, not really seeing it or caring much what it looks like. I’m not going to be here that long as I just put the strap of my purse over my shoulder. What I do take note of are the guards, the windows, the doors, and various places that could be blind spots for potential cameras.
I’m trying not to get lost in broody thoughts of why my father would set up this union. What was in it for my father when he sealed my fate by promising me to Andrey Belov?
Jesus! Who even does archaic shit like this? Betrothing your child when they can’t even make a decision yet? How do you just seal someone’s fate without batting an eye over their potential hopes and dreams? More importantly, how could I have been so blind as not to have seen this coming? Because he’s my dad! I trusted him.
What a fucking joke when he was the one that always said: Everyone’s a potential enemy, Isabella. All it takes is the right circumstance. Yeah, like pawning your twenty-one-year-old virgin daughter off to the Belovs to become a Bratva queen. He may as well have given me to Satan, although I’m thinking I’d rather my father have done that.
But then again, I’ve heard that Ivan Belov is Satan, and I’m sure his son Andrey is fast following in his daddy’s footsteps with an impressive body count and criminal record piling up.
I glance at Andrey, and he’s staring at me expectantly, holding his hand out like an usher pointing to a doorway. Shit! Did he say something? I’ve been so lost in my misery that I haven’t heard a word he’s said since I learned who the fuck he was.
How did one of the most exciting nights of my life, when I ventured out to snatch my first taste of freedom, end up here?
I glance around the room. It’s nice. Big king-size bed, bathroom off to one side, balcony off to the other… Mm, that’s interesting.
I walk to the double glass doors and open them, covertly taking note of the lock on the door just in case Andrey decides to lock it and pocket the key when he leaves the room. However, we’re on the twenty-sixth floor. I’m sure he doesn’t think there is any reason to do so. What am I going to do? Call Uber Copter?
I give a soft snort at that. Uber Copter. That actually wouldn’t be a bad idea for rich people. I step out, glancing over the Boston Harbor. The dark sea shimmers with lights reflecting off buildings spotlighted by the heavy silver moon hanging in the sky.
It figures it would be a full moon. All the living dead and creatures of hell are out tonight. As if on cue, the one creature from hell I had the misfortune of literally running into comes to stand beside me.
Andrey leans his hands on the balcony, staring out over the sea. “I love this view.”
“I can see it would be the perfect spot to howl at the moon,” I mumble.
He tilts his head. “Sorry?” He frowns. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I said it’s the perfect spot to stare at the full moon.” I raise my voice like I’m talking to a deaf person or how we Americans typically talk to people who don’t speak English, and we think they can’t hear properly.
Andrey turns to me, leaning his hip against the railing and folding his arms over his broad, muscular chest. His silver eyes glint off the moon’s glow, while his thick, straight, inky black hair blends with night.
A mixture of light and dark! Fuck why does he have to be so gorgeous? Why couldn’t he have been more like Quasimodo? Maybe then my damn traitorous body wouldn’t burn with desire every time he looks at me.
Great! Now I’ve got the Rocky Horror Picture show on my mind and the song Touch-A Touch-A Touch Me. I can’t stop thinking about oiling him up and rubbing him down. Stop! Stop! Jesus, Isabella, get a grip. I’ve tasted blood, and I want more… Aggggghhhhhh!
Nope! Stop, brain, for fuck sake, STOP! The man is my next jailer, only ten times worse than my father and about a million times more dangerous. So now is not the time to get an annoying catchy tune stuck in my head or think about doing the time warp. However, if I could time-warp back a couple of hours, I would make sure I don’t get bulldozed by Andrey Belov.
A picture of a man with hazel eyes flashes through my mind. He was at least an inch taller than Andrey. I think of him as Tom Ford. He was gallant and had given me his Tom Ford bomber jacket after my cream silk top turned to a sheer film showing off my lacy white underwear after cocktails and vodka rained down on me.
I remember his eyes and the way he carried himself. I suppress a shudder. He was even more gorgeous than Andrey. But he also seemed to be a lot more lethal. There was something about the way the man moved—an air of confidence. The man knew that even though he was in a den of lions, he was the alpha.
Maybe I should’ve offered him my V-card. I don’t think he’d have insisted we get married because he’d deflowered me. Fuck, I hate that word. Deflowered! It makes me feel like I have daisies and shit growing out from my nether bits.
“Isabella?” Andrey’s voice draws my attention. “You’re far away. What are you thinking about?”
“Tom Ford,” I answer honestly, and I see Andrey’s shoulders stiffen. “Do you think you could get me my new bomber jacket along with the underwear I left in the bathroom of your office back at the Velvet Lounge?” I start walking toward the room. “Actually, you know what. I’ll call an Uber and go get it myself.”
I dig through my bag, looking for my phone. Uh! I scratch some more. Where the fuck is my phone?
“Looking for this?” Andrey reaches into his back pocket and holds up my phone.
