Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
“Say that again, Ivan.” My voice is low, and every one of them—the sober ones, that is—knows what this means. In the corner of my eye, I see Lev put down the papers and watch, ready to swoop in.
“What? You didn’t hear me the first time?”
“Ivan, stop it,” Maxim hisses and turns to me, his blue eyes narrowing. “He’s drunk, Niko. Let it go.”
“Why are you acting like you didn’t think the same thing, Max?” Ivan spits, stumbling forward, a mocking grin across his flushed face. “Your wife’s mother is a whore; everyone knows that. And we all know the apple doesn’t fall—”
My jaw tightens, the burn of anger rising in my chest. The words hit their mark, and I am not going to sit here while he speaks this way about Nina.
I move way too fast for any of them to react, grabbing Ivan by the throat and shoving him against the backrest. His eyes bulge out of their sockets as he claws at my hands. Maxim, Luca, and Lev all try to pull me from him to no avail.
“You insult me all you want, Ivan, but never ever say a word about my wife, or I will put you in so much pain, you’ll be begging me for your death,” I snarl.
“Niko, let him go.” Luca tugs on my arm, but I shrug him off. There’s a reason why I’m the one they send to scare our enemies.
“Are you threatening me?” Ivan throws me a smile, meant to look like he’s amused, but I see the moment the fog of intoxication starts to lift, his eyes sharpening.
“You’ve known me for thirty-two years, Ivan.” The anger burns through the last shreds of my self-control. “I never make threats.”
Ivan blinks a few times, as if trying to clear away the last remnants of his drunkenness. His neck flexes as he swallows hard. “All this for a woman?”
I shove him again and let go, the other three giving me a wide berth. They all know I don’t lose my temper—not when they taunt me, make fun of me, or outright insult me. I always keep my cool.
But talking about Nina is an entirely different matter.
“She’s not just any woman. She’s my wife.” I whirl around and walk away, casting a glare over my shoulder as I reach the doorway. “You’d do well to remember that.”
9
NINA
Sitting on Nikolai’s right side at the dining table, the soft glow of the overhead lights cast warm shadows on his face. He’s big, rough, and rugged.
I noticed it the first time I saw him, but for the past few days, the awareness has only intensified.
Nikolai is handsome. No, not in a conventional way, but in a way that feels sinful and forbidden. Rough around the edges but distinctively attractive. I keep sneaking glances at him, lust pooling in my belly, pulse pounding between my thighs.
I can’t even taste the food anymore. I’m hungry for something else.
“Does it bother you, Nina?” His voice fills the space between us, and I’m watching him a lot closer than usual.
“What does?”
“My face.”
He turns fully to me, the unexpected question catching me by surprise. The scar is nothing to me anymore. I barely even notice it. It’s just part of him, like his hair, his stubble. “No, Nikolai. It doesn’t.”
“It can’t be easy for you to eat dinner every night and have to look at me.”
The desire forgotten, I set my napkin down and give him my full attention. “Nikolai, I don’t know what you mean. I like these dinners with you.” For a brief moment, I consider how much to tell him for the sake of my self-preservation, but to hell with it. He deserves no less than the truth. “It’s the best part of my day, and I always look forward to them.”
He searches my eyes, an incredulous look on his features, a flush of red on the tips of his ears. “You do?”
God, this man is so broken that he can’t even believe I enjoy his company. Why does he think so little of himself? Why does he think his small scar will send me running? Deep down, however, I understand. I am just as broken.
Here we are, two broken people trying to make their arranged marriage work.
And I want him so badly I ache.
“Nikolai, we’ve been married for two weeks.”
“We are. Do you regret it, Nina?”
“No!” Frustration fills me, and I yank my hair. “Why do you always think of the worst about me?”
“I don’t, but I know I’m not who you pictured getting married to.”
His voice is so calm, and it angers me. It has been building for weeks, the slow burn in my chest, the mounting pressure in my skull.
This is the last straw. That comment tips me over the edge. I am so tired of everyone telling me what to feel and how to react and dictating how I should live my life.