Chapter 33

Thirty-Three

R uby

I've never worn a gown quite like the one I wear now. The corset is crafted of lace that offers peek-a-boos of pale flesh, while the skirt bushels in heaps gauzy fabric flecked with gold that dance in the low light of the ballroom.

My hair is twisted to fall in delicate curls over one bare shoulder. Tatiana had made a day of dressing me for tonight, and I had to admit the look on my husband's face was entirely worth it. I don't think I've ever seen a man look at a woman the way he looked at me.

He dips his head close to my ear, rumbling quietly, "I don't know how I feel about this."

I tip my smoky eyes to his. "What?"

His hand around my waist pulses, and I glance down to see his fingers curl into me. Holding me just a little tighter. "Every man is looking at you as though you're a treat they would like to eat."

I flush, scandalized. "They are not."

"Yes, wife, they are."

"No one wants to eat anyone."

"Again, not true. I have every intention of eating you tonight." His eyes drift hungrily over my body. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it with a violent scrape. "Fuck—that dress."

"You bought it." The words fall as an accusation, but in truth, I love this dress. I've never felt so beautiful in my entire life.

"I asked Tatiana to order it weeks ago. My only specification was the color."

"Why cream?"

His eyes burn. "I never got to see you in a wedding dress."

I swear, my heart seizes. I have no words, but I don't need any as he spins me onto the floor. We dance until I complain that my feet ache, and I need to pee. Kirill points out the bathroom as a few men in fancy suits see their chance to talk to him, and I slip away. I feel his eyes on me as I move across the ballroom to the bathroom. He has a man posted at every exit, so I know I'm safe.

It's as I'm washing my hands that the door opens, and a shockingly beautiful woman appears. She's sleek in a way I could never hope to be. Her dark hair shines in the low light, her olive skin a deep contrast to my pale, freckle spackled flesh.

I offer her a smile, and her cat-like green eyes narrow just faintly on me before her red-painted lips spread wide. There is something alarmingly false about the way she introduces herself, "I am Anya. It is good to meet you, Ruby."

She knows my name?

I'm surprised she speaks English at all, though. Most of the people I've met tonight, don't.

She laughs at my obvious shock, both that she knows my name, and that she speaks English. There's a note of bitterness in it, however, that has me on edge.

Cautiously, but undeniably curiously, I say, "Hello."

"I don't speak all English. But some. Enough."

"Well, Anya, it's lovely to meet you, too." I finish drying my hands and am moving to the door when she stops me.

"When is it you married Kirill?" The way she says his name has something like dread awakening in my belly. It only expands as I meet her eyes again to see raw hatred there, before that hatred flashes to something else, something fake and dangerous.

"Um—a couple months ago."

"Ah." Her lips curl. "And when did you meet?"

I shift in discomfort. "A couple months before that."

"Very fast, you move."

"It was, yes."

She turns to the sink with her lipstick, dabbing full, beautiful lips. But her green eyes are on me as she says, "It would have been nice if he hadn't been fucking me while he was courting you. Nicer to know that he never planned to give me the ring you wear now. You know, he told me I would make a good wife." Her lip curls as her eyes drop over the length of me, finding me, obviously, lacking. "Before you."

Ice washes over me. I feel as though I've been hit by a violent wave of cold water as I gasp for breath. My ears ring, but somehow, I manage to return her mean smile with one that is far too gracious. "Have a nice night, Anya."

With that, I turn and flee. I feel dizzy as I slam into a broad chest only steps outside the bathroom. My hands are shaking, and my heart is rioting in my chest. What began as a beautiful, fairy-tale night has turned into something violently ugly. Now, I only want to escape.

"Sorry," I murmur as large hands grip my waist, steadying me. The touch is far too familiar as it lingers, and I feel my eyes drift upward to a face that stops my wild heart in its track.

The man from the picture.

"It's no problem, little angel ." That voice—the voice from the phone call. The one that pushed me to marry my obviously lying, cheating husband.

That voice—this face—was supposed to be my salvation.

It had been a nightmare, instead.

"Let me go." I shove away, fear sparking hot and quick, like lightning, inside me.

His face changes, the warmth in his eyes vanishing quickly. I'm not even sure there was warmth there at all. "You know who I am?"

I say nothing. My heart is a violent drum in my ears. I feel wobbly and weak. Like I might faint.

I will not faint.

The man speaks again. "Whatever he told you, is a lie."

"I heard everything," I say, lifting my chin. "The entire phone call."

The pretense washes from his eyes as fast as it fell into place. "What was he like when he was with you?"

My head is spinning like a top. I can't keep up with my raging emotions, and this white-hot fear. "What?"

"Father. What was he like when he was with you? Who was he?" His eyes are so cold. Glacial. "When he disappeared on us, leaving my mother alone for weeks, he was with you. I want to know who he was when was pretending that we didn't exist."

"I—I didn't know."

"We knew. We all knew about his little angel and the whore he was addicted to. My mother knew." If he could spit in my face without drawing attention, I'm sure he would. This man—my half-brother—hates me. "She had to pretend that it didn't hurt her how he would come home and beat her after talking about the perfection of his second family."

I whimper, shaking my head. "I didn't?—"

He interrupts me. "He raised us with violence. He pit us against each other, beat my mother until she was bloody and broken, again and again." His lip curls. "How was he with you, and your mother? I want to know. I want to know what is so special about you, that he left you, his fortune?"

My mind is still reeling at the thought of this other family my father had had and hid. How he'd been cruel with them, when I only remember him being loving and gentle with us. My mind snaps to his last sentence. "I don't want his money."

"Everyone wants money."

"Not me."

"Why do you think the Volkov man wants you, made you his little whore of a wife?" His eyes drag the length of my body, and I feel sick with the thought that my half-brother is undressing me with his gaze.

"He doesn't want the money, either."

"That's funny. I've just learned that The Volk Vault Bank bought yet another of Russia's banks, and his latest just so happens to be the bank where our father stored his fortune, a fortune that is now in your name."

My head reels. My thoughts splinter. Kirill told me he would never take my father's dirty money.

"You're lying."

"Am I?"

I think I'm going to be sick. "Excuse me."

It's as I begin to try to escape that Artyom reaches out for me. He grips me hard around my arm, his voice filled with deadly loathing. "He is dead in the ground, but I will have you. I will shred the wings of his little angel until you are a whore not even the devil will welcome. You will know the pain my mother knew—the pain I knew. And I will have that fortune. It is my right."

"Take it." I shudder, revolted. "I don't want anything from him."

My half-brother laughs. "Oh, but I want more than the money."

Just when I think things can't get worse, Anya, the beautiful, hateful woman from the bathroom, slides into my half-brother's side. Her lips curl into a hateful smile as she says, "He'll have his pound of flesh, Ruby. One way or another."

Certain I'm going to faint, I flee. I run straight for Pavel's arms, pushing into his chest as he tries to block me from the cool air I so desperately need. "I need out, Pavel. Now."

He must read something desperate in my eyes, because he relents. With his hand at my low back, he guides me into the night.