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My father’s eyes soften as they fall upon me. “Isabella,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You look beautiful.”
I don’t respond, my eyes fixed on the mirror. We haven’t spoken in days, not since I’ve been confined to Andrey’s penthouse under heavy guard. While I did tighten the noose around the neck of my freedom, my father had no business pretending everything was normal, as if he hadn’t played a part in this charade.
He steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder, but I pull away. He sighs, dropping his hand to his side. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but—“
“It’s never been about what I wanted. So nothing you say matters to me,“ I interject, my voice glacial, eyes devoid of emotion—one of the only things my father taught me well is how to shield myself from prying eyes. “Let’s just get this over and done with.”
My father’s face tightens, but he says nothing more. Instead, he offers his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I take it. Together, we stride through the grand halls of the Belov mansion, a stately manor nestled on Battle Street in Cambridge.
The opulent surroundings speak of old wealth and power, with intricately carved oak paneling adorning the walls, catching the soft glow of crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceilings.
Persian rugs, woven with intricate patterns and rich colors, cushion our steps as we pass ornate vases and sculptures that seem to whisper of centuries past.
The mansion’s architecture blends classical elegance with modern luxury, its rooms filled with priceless art and antique furniture, each corner echoing with the whispers of history and prestige.
As we near the open glass doors of one of the living rooms, I can see into the back garden. I catch glimpses of the guests. Andrey’s family and close Bratva members stand in small clusters, their expressions a mix of curiosity and calculation.
My own father’s closest associates are here as well, including my cousin James and my best friend Stacy Thompson with her parents.
I’d like to say that I’m glad she was allowed to be here, but the only reason Stacy and her parents are here is because her father, Judge Thompson, is officiating the ceremony. Both of Stacy’s parents are prominent judges in Boston and have lived next door to my family in Back Bay for generations. I’m now wondering about their alliances and if they have made a pact to work with the devil like my father has.
Again, my father tries to explain himself as we walk, his voice a low murmur in my ear. “Isabella, I—“
“Save it,” I snap, cutting him off. “Unless you have a plan to get me out of here without having to marry a monster, I don’t fucking want to hear it!”
I don’t even look at him as I hear his soft gasp. I have never used foul language in his presence, let alone directed at him. But I’m no longer innocent, naive Isabella trying to please my father and hiding under the guise of being kept safe from his enemies. I’m about to marry goddamn public enemy number one, delivered on a silver platter by my father.
My father is the reason I’d never become an attorney or trust the law. His reasoning that there are always two sides to a story and that someone’s right is another’s wrong never sat well with me. There is definitely a line between wrong and right. Even those standing on the wrong side of that line are well aware of it, but they choose that twisted notion to help them sleep at night.
A pang zings through me as I remember a similar conversation I had with Andrey that first night I was locked in his penthouse. Again, my body betrays me, and a fast flash of desire curls through me when I think of that night. My stomach tenses, and other parts of my anatomy pulse.
Fuck, I’m walking with my father here and lusting after a man that stands for everything I despise and who is waiting to tighten the noose on my freedom.
We reach the back garden, where the ceremony is to take place. The setting is beautiful, a stark contrast to the tension in the air. Flowers adorn every surface, their vibrant colors a mockery of the darkness that surrounds this union. Men flank the garden, their hands resting on concealed weapons, a silent reminder of the world I’m being forced into.
I dreamed of a different wedding than this. This is a performance, a show of power and control. But I will play my part for now. Because one thing Andrey doesn’t know is that I am not the compliant bride he thinks I am. My time will come, and when it does, I’ll be ready—the man doesn’t quite know just what a flight risk I am. Only this time, they won’t see the consequence of trying to shackle me in marriage is about to unleash on them.
Another thing I can thank my shithead father for is teaching me how to bide my time—although it’s a lesson I didn’t take to heart too well up until a few days ago. I now fully understand the reasoning behind not letting my emotions drive me!
We step over the threshold, soft music starts to play, and all eyes turn to me. As my father walks me down the not-too-long aisle toward Andrey, my heart feels like a stone in my chest.
Andrey stands there, waiting for me, resplendent in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuates his powerful frame. His dark hair and silver eyes with tints of blue assess me, making my stomach flutter, and my heart jump.
Thoughts of our one night of unbridled passion fill my mind and send an unwanted tingle to the apex between my legs. While that night was filled with a few passionate interludes and one dark one where he sought to teach me a lesson for daring to defy him, Andrey hasn’t touched me since.
A fact that has had me in a pent-up state of sexual frustration and arousal every time he just enters the room. My treacherous body craves to experience more of the pleasure he brought me while I battle with my disgust at just how much I want him—and all the wickedly delicious things he did to me, including…
I shake that dark thought away and suppress the shudder, which is a mixture of shame, disgust, and desire. I concentrate on my carefully thought-out plans for the afternoon, trying to ignore the instant spark contact with Andrey’s warm hand that shoots through my system when my father hands me over to the man.
My sensitive system, which has now been introduced to the delicious pleasure of sensation Andrey can bring, sends all the sparks directly to my needy pussy. I feel my nipples tighten against the lacy white bra I have on, and I just know the matching panties are going to have a wet patch on them.
Fuck, this is going to be a painfully long day! I have to get my traitorous body under control. I breathe and make sure my face is a mask. My eyes calm as I lift them to meet Andrey’s. I force myself to ignore the darkening flicker of desire in his eyes or the smile that lifts the corner of his beautiful mouth.
My pussy pulses as I remember the feel of his soft wet mouth and darting tongue sucking and licking my clit. For the first time today, I’m glad about the billowing skirt of the dress concealing the clenching of the top of my thighs together as I try to relieve the tension there.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Okay, don’t think of fucking. That’s a bad idea. I’m going to go with Shit balls! Oh God, no, not balls. That just stirs my fantasy of all the things I’ve imagined doing with Andrey over the past two days, well, the sexual things, not the murdering things.
I hear a soft chuckle rumble from Andrey’s chest and look up at his eyes, which have darkened a bit more. The look in his eyes tells me he’s basically reading my thoughts. His smile widens, taunting me more.
