Page 21 of Brutal Vows

“It’s going to be okay, Milana.” To stress my point, I place a hand over hers and stroke my thumb over her knuckles. I was an idiot to think this would be fun, maybe even romantic for my mystery bride. I mean, a man has to do something, try something to ease into the discomfort of this whole fucked-up situation. “We’re going to turn up ahead, so try lean with me this time.”

“This is petrifying. I never liked speedy things, or skiing, even rollercoasters, fully strapped in.”

We’re basically crawling now, and at this rate, I’m going to feet-paddle around the bend, using all my strength to make sure we don’t topple over. The notion makes me want to chuckle, but instead, I squeeze her hand and let go to take full control of the steering again.

“Just trust me. I’ve done a lot of mileage, trained on skills courses, off-roading, snow and ice in winter. All of it. Don’t worry about us. It’s the other people on the road you should worry about.”

“I don’t trust anybody, least of all men! Never mind men with bikes!”

I quirk a brow at this admission, but I get it. A Bratva princess has no reason to trust a Mafia dickhead. Yep, plus she’s a woman. I wouldn’t trust me, either. But the tone of her voice says there’s more to her admission: she got burned by the asshole who took the photos of her and let them loose on the internet.

“Oh, boy, aren’t we off to a great start,” I say, keeping things light. “Listen, I need to go faster here or we’re going to fall over. Hold on, and lean left with me.”

She’s muttering something, maybe praying for her life, but probably condemning me to hell in Russian. I take the turn-off at a sedate speed, and she doesn’t lean left, as expected, so I adjust for it. Luckily, the road is straight again until we enter the marina. She’s quieted down, and I’ve covered her clinging hands with one of mine again. She’s cold, even though she’s pressed snug against me and my body is blocking the headwind.

My captain has sent through the GPS coordinates, and I follow them on the screen until I’ve cruised right up to the berth. As arranged, my people are already here. A driver brought her few things on board, and there’s someone to head back with my bike to Boston. There’s the usual security detail who tailed us, and finally, there’s the small crew in charge of the yacht. They won’t show their faces beyond what’s necessary, and as I park the bike, the guard who will drive my bike back steps forward.

“Don’t take your helmet off,” I say to Milana. “Not until we’re inside the yacht.”

“Why not? I can’t wait to take it off.”

“Security.” I glance around to see who is watching us. The marina isn’t busy, but I don’t want to attract any attention.

“Where’re we even going now?” Her hands fall away, but she doesn’t move, still pressed to me.

“Blind date on my yacht. We’ll spend a night or two as we sail to Boston. Depends.” I stabilize the bike on its central kickstand and swing a leg over to stand. “Let me help you.”

She manages a leg over the seat, but as she slides down, she grabs my arms. I steady her, but she doesn’t seem to find her balance on her heels. I have her in my arms before her knees can buckle, and her helmet hits mine with a dull thud.

“Ugh, let me go,” she complains, but her arm has hooked around my neck as I hug her close.

Fuck. My heart squeezes. I’m a husband, with my bride—my new wife—in my arms, ready to step into a new life.

Just like this. Just us. For a fleeting second, I pretend this is real. I pretend she’s a warm bundle of perfect woman in my arms, trusting, with all the love a woman can have for a man in the way she clings to me, smiling. And that look—that freaking look she gave to her lover, captured forever on video—shines in her eyes for me. A light I would never dim.

Our helmets are the barrier I need to keep this fucking real, and I can’t even read her eyes right now. It’s for the best; I don’t want to read hatred for me in her gaze. Still, I’m hopeful and can’t stop myself from murmuring, “Come now, princess, allow me to carry you over the proverbial threshold.”

She wriggles. “I don’t want to be on a bloody boat.”

“Too bad, no changing plans now,” I huff, trying to ignore how the curve of her hip will rub against my cock if I don’t hitch her up soon. “And be still, for God’s sake. I don’t want onlookers to think you’re being kidnapped. Or worse, have us slip from the gangplank into the dirty harbor water.”

“Ugh.”

She stops all her protesting. So that got her attention, eh? My princess doesn’t like getting dirty. Good to know, and I make a note to remember. We make it onto the yacht without any disaster, but things are stirring in my gut. This one…life isn’t going to be straightforward with her, is it?

As soon as we’re in the privacy of the yacht’s bar and sitting area, I lower her to her feet. She isn’t much steadier on those killer heels, but she pushes away from me and reaches for a barstool for support. As I take my helmet off, her fingers are at her helmet’s strap, desperate to unclip it but missing the mark.

I signal to a hovering crew member to get out and to let the captain know we can depart. He nods and leaves.

“Slow down, princess,” I say, putting my helmet down. “Let me help. I can see what’s going on here.” I tilt her head back a bit to get to the buckle, then push my fingers between her fumbling ones.

She drops her hands, and her frustration is palpable.

“This wasn’t my plan,” she mutters under her breath as I carefully release the buckle and lift the helmet off her head, her hair now a windswept and tangled mess.

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing as I put the helmet with mine on the bar counter. The bedhead-look is adorable, but it’s the fire flashing in her gaze that really gets to me. I’ll take any emotion from her, as long as it isn’t the dread that shone from her eyes for those few seconds she stood in the shadows before walking down the aisle towards me.

“This wasn’t my plan, either, but we’re going to have to make this work somehow,” I say. “I need to know…” I trail off, not wanting to be so blunt.