23. Bronwyn

23

brONWYN

At my apartment building, I hit the button for the elevator out of forlorn hope but... nope, the button didn’t light up. So for the second time that day, I had to walk up four flights. All the running I’d done when he proposed, plus the funeral parade, had left my joints so swollen that each step sent sharp, hot pain knifing through my legs. I pushed on, grimly determined. But I couldn’t stop the pain from showing on my face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked as we reached the first landing.

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

I started forward but he blocked me with his arm. “No,” he said, patient but firm. “You were in pain this morning. You’re in pain now. What’s going on?”

I did my best to out-glare him, but he was a lot better at it than I was. Eventually, I huffed and crossed my arms. I couldn’t hide it from him forever, not if we were living together. In fact, why was I so reluctant to tell him? If he reacted like Nathan had...well, he couldn’t break up with me, could he?

But he might want to, a little voice whispered, and I hated how vulnerable I suddenly felt.

I took a deep breath. “I have a problem with my joints,” I muttered.

He nodded. “What sort of problem?”

I looked at the graffiti on the stairwell wall. “Rheumatoid arthritis.” And I waited for him to say what everybody says: but you’re young!

Except he didn’t say that. He said, “You should have told me.” And he said it with a tenderness I hadn’t thought he was capable of. Slowly, tentatively, my gaze crept back to him. I could see that warmth in his eyes again, like sunlight breaking through ice, and it was so beautiful I had to force myself to remember who he was. What he was.

I swallowed and turned away. “Would it have changed things?” I asked, my voice hollow. “Would you have let them kill me instead if you’d known I was...flawed?”

His hands went straight to my shoulders, and he turned me to look at him. When I looked away, he took my chin between thumb and forefinger and made me meet his eyes. He softly shook his head. “You are not flawed. Don’t ever say that.”

I glared: of course I am. But he just gazed steadily back at me.

And as he soaked up all my defensive anger, that tiny, fragile light he’d sparked in me grew and spread. I gave a quick, embarrassed nod and looked away.

Then I yelped because he slid his arms under my knees and back and lifted me into the air. “What are you doing?!”

“Carrying you.” He cradled me against his chest.

I tried to ignore the feeling of his pec pressing against my boob. “You can’t carry me up three more flights of?—”

He started climbing and I discovered that yes, he could quite easily carry me up three flights without even slowing down. And when we passed an old lady coming the other way and she gave me an approving nod, I felt ridiculous and... lucky.

I changed out of my dress, packed a small bag, and he drove me downtown. We rode an elevator up to the penthouse of one of his buildings. As we stepped out into the hallway, I gazed around at the thick scarlet carpet and pristine white walls. His hallway is nicer than my apartment.

He held out a silver key and I blinked stupidly at it, then stared at him. “You’re giving me a key?”

“You’re my fiancée, Bronwyn, not a prisoner. Or did you think I was going to keep you chained to the bed?”

That rare ghost of a smile again. But I didn’t miss how his eyes flared. And I was very aware of the treacherous ribbon of heat that lashed straight down to my groin. I focused very intently on sliding the key into the lock, turning it and?—

Wow.

There was an echoey rush of space. Polished wood floor seemed to stretch on to infinity and there was so much light and air. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw why: the place was double height, the ceiling at least twenty feet high. And one whole wall was glass, with sliding doors that opened onto a balcony. Even with the storm clouds overhead and rain sluicing down the windows, it was beautifully light and open. When the sun came out... I could imagine lounging on one of the soft leather couches, reading a book: it’d be like being outdoors.

Most of the penthouse was one huge room. There was a fancy kitchen at one end with a granite countertop and island and lots of stainless-steel appliances. A big TV hung on the opposite wall and there was enough floor space for a seriously lavish party.

But something about the place felt...off. It wasn’t just that everything was expensive, or achingly cool. It wasn’t that it was all hard surfaces and clean lines: that was very Radimir, cold and efficient. Something else…

I finally figured it out. There was no stuff, no personal clutter. No books, no photos, no ugly porcelain figurine given to you by an aunt that you feel too guilty to throw away, no piece of driftwood that you found on a beach on your first date with your partner. Nothing that was him. I glanced sideways at him, my stomach knotting. He must think anything sentimental is...weak.

I turned on the spot, taking it all in. I felt like I was on the set of a movie, or in a show home but this is my home now. I glanced at Radimir. And he’s going to be my husband.

I stumbled over to the wall of glass and pressed my forehead against it. The rain was coming down so heavily it looked like we were underwater, and I was looking down on a blurry, undersea city. My head went light and my stomach flipped, but it wasn’t vertigo. This was the first time since he’d proposed that I’d had a chance to just stop and process things.

I was going to be a mafia wife, like Liliya. Maybe Radimir would treat me a little better than Spartak treated her, but he was still a criminal. People were terrified of him. He killed people. It didn’t matter how much I was attracted to him, I couldn’t love him.

I heard him walk over and caught his reflection in the glass. He stopped behind me, watching me. “You must have questions. Ask them.” His voice was tight, like he was bracing himself. “They won’t be able to make you testify, once we’re married.”

I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t sure I could ask this stuff if I looked into his eyes. “How many people have you killed?”

“More than twenty, over the years. I didn’t always do it myself, but I gave the order.”

“They were all bad people, though, right?”

“They were all part of my world, yes. We don’t kill civilians.”

Civilians. There was a shock as I realized that’s what I was. And then a second shock when I realized that I wasn’t, anymore. I didn’t have that protection now. If someone murdered me, it would be Bronwyn Hanford, a known associate of the Aristov mafia family.

“What do you… do? I mean, drugs, or prostitution or…?”

“Mainly what you’d call...white collar crime. Bribes and sometimes blackmail so I know which pieces of land will become valuable. Backroom deals so my property company gets the contract. We run a lot of gambling in the city, move stolen goods, sell guns. We take a piece of other people’s activities and we run protection for a lot of neighborhoods and businesses...but no, we aren’t involved with prostitution, or trafficking. And we don’t sell drugs.”

“The man I saw you kill, Borislav. He was... bad?”

“He was a rapist piece of shit,” said Radimir coldly. He told me about all the women Borislav had attacked, and I felt a tiny bit of the tension in my chest unwind.

“And that’s why you killed him?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” said Radimir bitterly. He explained about The Eight and their order to kill Borislav, even though he was Spartak’s brother, and the two families had a truce. My head started to spin again. How can he just kill someone, on an order? I didn’t understand his world and I wondered if I ever would. “And if the guy at the funeral…” I asked nervously. “Spartak...if he finds out you killed his brother…”

“He’ll come for me,” said Radimir. “And everyone close to me.” He looked at me and I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.

My stomach lurched and I must have gone pale because Radimir marched over to me and put his hands on my shoulders protectively. “That’ll never happen. He’ll never find out.”

I nodded weakly but the fear barely receded. How do they do this? How do they live their lives knowing there are people who want to kill them? I had to focus on something concrete or I was going to lose it. I pushed off from the window and looked around the rest of the apartment. There was a wet room with a rainfall shower, another bathroom with a beautiful copper, freestanding tub, a gym with a weights bench, floor mats and a punch bag and an office. That only left…

I pushed open the final door and found a bedroom with a king-size bed. I stood there staring at the plump white pillows and crisp sheets as Radimir walked in behind me.

“There’s only one bedroom,” I said, my voice slow with shock. I whirled to face him. “How is there only one bedroom, it’s a freakin’ billionaire penthouse!”

“There were three bedrooms,” said Radimir, tugging his waistcoat straight. “But I had one converted into a gym, and one into an office. Why would I need more than one bedroom?”

“But there’s only one...bed.”

We stared at each other. I saw the heat rise and flare in his eyes and felt the traitorous depth-charge of heat bloom in my groin. I quickly looked away and started pacing, running my fingers through my hair. I’d had this thought as soon as he proposed but I’d been pushing it out of my mind. I couldn’t put it off any longer. “We need to talk about how this is going to work.”

He crossed his arms. “Very well.”

“I presume that part of this arrangement is that you get sex. That’s the deal, right? I get to stay alive, and you get to do whatever you want to me.” My heart was hammering, and my breathing was tight. From fear. It’s completely from fear. I turned to him. “Right?”

He moved closer and I swallowed. Those frozen-sky eyes had gone molten, and I saw his lips form the shape of yes. But he said nothing for a heartbeat, just stared into my eyes. And then?—

“If something happens,” he said, his voice ragged with lust, “it’ll be because you ask for it. I wouldn’t touch a woman against her will.”

I swallowed. And now I want him even more. It was suddenly very quiet. I licked my lips to speak, and his gaze instantly flicked to them. What would it take, right now? Saying his name? Just parting my lips a little? I could feel that pull towards him, like I was sliding over a cliff…

I broke his gaze, staring at the floor as I silently counted to three. I had to resist. I had to stay cold and clinical, like him. Negotiate this stuff the way one of the mafia women would.

I lifted my gaze and banished all emotion from my voice. “I guess if this isn’t a real marriage, I can’t expect you to be faithful.”

He hesitated. Then, in a voice as cold as mine, “That’s right. There’ll be other women.”

I tried not to let that affect me. Why should I care? I pulled away from him and walked over to the window. Cold and clinical. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he agreed. Then his voice changed. “Wait, are you saying the same applies to you?”

“Well...yeah. If I meet some man and I want to fuck him then?—”

I heard him march across the room in three big strides. He grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him. Suddenly, all pretense was gone. He scowled down at me and the possessive fury in his eyes made me go weak. “You are not fucking anyone else!”

“Well...then I guess you aren’t, either,” I muttered.

He nodded, glowering. But I didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes: relief.

While Radimir worked in his office, as ruthlessly efficient as a machine, I wandered the penthouse, getting a feel for my new home. I couldn’t get over what a long walk it was, from one end to the other. In the bedroom, there was a walk-in closet that was bigger than my entire bedroom. It was full of Radimir’s suits, shirts and ties, all meticulously arranged, and it smelled of him.

“I will clear some space for you.”

I jerked and looked up. Radimir was gazing at me from his office. How long had he been watching me?

“No need,” I told him, and pointed. “My entire wardrobe will fit between your blue shirts and your white shirts.”

“I’ll buy you more,” he said solemnly.

So, I look the part, like Lilliya. The perfect mafia wife. I couldn’t imagine power-dressing like the women at the funeral. I spent my life in jeans and sneakers. He’s marrying the wrong woman.

I dropped onto one of the big leather couches and brooded. I couldn’t love him, and I wasn’t going to give in to temptation and let him fuck me again, however much I craved that. But if we were going to be trapped in this marriage, I wanted us to get along. What if I learned Russian? That would help, right?

I downloaded a language learning app for my phone, put in some earbuds and stretched out on the couch for a few hours, repeating—and mangling—things like What time is the train and I’d like to buy a hat . When my stomach started rumbling, I went into the kitchen and dug through the refrigerator. There was some weird stuff with Russian labels I wasn’t brave enough to try but there was enough regular food that I managed to whip up one of my triple-decker comfort sandwiches with turkey, cheese, tomatoes, mustard, pickles and chips. I made one for Radimir, too. He was on some sort of conference call, so I just set it down on the corner of his desk and quickly retreated. He looked up, surprised, and nodded in thanks.

I hit the Russian app for another hour and then, when my brain was fried, I pulled out a book and lay on one of the couches to read. It was long enough that I could lie on my stomach, my favorite position for reading ever since I was a kid. My mind slipped into the story: I was in sun-drenched Texas and my horse was sick and the only guy who could help her was the one I’d sworn I’d stay away from?—

“You’ll strain your eyes.”

I jerked, rolled onto my side to look up and nearly fell off the couch. I must have been reading for hours because the penthouse was dark. Radimir was standing beside the couch, gazing down at me, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “It’s time for bed,” he told me, and his accent carved so much into those four words. A touch of humor, like he thought it was cute that I’d gotten caught up in reading. A little protectiveness, as if he really didn’t want me to strain my eyes. And an undercurrent of heat that soaked right to my core and rippled down between my thighs.

I put my book down and followed him through to the bedroom. He started to undress, and I watched his body slowly appear. It was the first time I’d seen him with his shirt off in good light and suddenly I couldn’t drag my eyes from the hulking, caramel swells of his shoulders and the thick slabs of his pecs. He was so... hard, everything deliciously sculpted. Nathan, my ex, had had muscles, too, but they’d looked pumped up, somehow, built over time with gym sessions and protein shakes. Radimir looked like he’d started out big and then his brutal life had stripped away anything unnecessary until there was only muscle left. And there were so many scars: thin, raised lines that had to be from knives and a couple of circular, glossy scars that must be from bullets. I could see his tattoos more clearly now, too, the stars and rose on his chest that I knew must be to do with the Bratva, and a long string of Russian words that wound around his torso like a rope.

He got into bed and— wait what the hell? I’d caught a glimpse of his feet as he slid them under the covers and for a second, it had looked like… Nah. It must have been a trick of the light.

He looked at me and I realized I was still standing there fully dressed. Shit. I should have quickly shed my clothes while he was occupied. I lifted my hands to the hem of my sweater. He’s already seen me naked. It’s no big deal. But I just couldn’t, not with him lying there, watching me. I panicked and darted into the en suite, then stood there gripping the edge of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. Are we really going to share the bed, just lie there next to each other all night and not… I trusted him to stick to the rules. I wasn’t sure I trusted myself.

I looked at the bag of clothes I’d brought. What do mafia wives wear in bed? Lipstick, stockings and a willing smile, probably. I needed to send a message. I needed to make sure he knew sex was absolutely off the table.

I took off my make-up. Then I dug through my bag and found a dark green nightshirt with a curled-up cartoon raccoon and the words Sleepy time, now. I took a deep breath, walked back out into the bedroom and stood there looking at him, head held high. There. That’s as sexy as you’re getting.

Except...it didn’t go how I’d hoped.

He turned to look at me and his eyes instantly narrowed in lust. The muscles of his chest and arms tensed, like he was about to pounce, and he actually leaned forward an inch or two before he managed to stop himself. I gulped. But I also felt a deep rush of something like pride. He made me feel more wanted, like this, than Nathan ever had even when I’d been dressed up in silk and lace.

I slipped under the covers and lay on my side, turned away from him. And then, because it felt awkward not to, “Goodnight.”

I could feel his gaze sweeping up and down the outline of my body under the sheets. Then, “Sleep well, Krasavitsa .” And he turned off the light.

I lay there, my heart hammering, waiting for the first touch of those big hands on my ass, my legs, my breasts. Any second now. He’d grab my arm and tug me flat on my back, then kick my legs apart and?—

Seconds passed and I fought to make my breathing slow and easy. I didn’t want him to know I was lying there expectantly. Ready. Aching. What’s happening to me?

I was trapped with a monster. One I couldn’t resist.