Page 48 of Marked By His Touch

“You need to behave if you become— wife, mine to keep,” he says nonchalantly as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

I almost choke on the wine. "Your wife?" I ask, breathless.

He nods slowly, his smile widening. "There's something I need to talk—to you." He leans forward. "When you be my bride. I need you to comply, to behave of your own free will,da?Or else, you become— liability.” He watches me, waiting for my reaction. He knows what I'm thinking.

Bile rises in my throat. His words hang heavy in the air, a promise, a threat.

“So you want me to be a willing participant in your underworld, a docile wife who obeys every command?” I say. “Why would I ever agree to that?”

"You not have a choice,slatka."

“A docile wife to a kingpin?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "How original."

He laughs, a sound that chills me to the bone. "That not entirely—inaccurate,love,” he says, grabbing my hand and stroking my palm in sensual circles. "But I not looking for a trophy,Anya. I want you, and I want you to want me." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against my cheek. I pull back, my skin tingling where he's touched me.

“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp.

He leans back, his eyes dark and intense. “Because—” he says, his voice low, "I not man who enjoys force in wife, only in bedroom I like this— with bodies, hard and sweaty. In life I want—- compliance—-cooperation. I want you my partner, my equal. My bride.”

"And if I don’t?” I ask, my breath ragged, thinking about being his wife.

He sighs, his expression softening. “Then you become— liability," he says. "And I can’t have that."

"A liability," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "What does that mean?"

He smiles, a knowing smile. "It means you would be—no use to me."

I’ll be dead.

I stare at the glass of wine, the rich, velvety liquid swirling in its depths. It feels like a deadly game, and he’s already won the first round. He's got me on the ropes. But I'm not going to go down without a fight.

I raise the glass to my lips and take a sip. The wine tastes like velvet and fire.

He watches me, his eyes unwavering. I can feel my body tensing, my breath catching in my throat. I need to be smart. I need to play with the same ruthlessness that he does. But he sees through me. He knows my vulnerabilities. He knows how to make me feel. And that's the most dangerous thing of all.

I lean forward; I need answers. "So, let's pretend I refuse to be yourwife?"

Nikolai's smile vanishes. His eyes narrow, a coldness spreading across his features like a dark cloud. “Well, actually—That not option,Anya. I own you.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Does he own me? I can't breathe, can't even form a coherent thought. He's playing for keeps.

"What are you talking about? Nobody owns me," I finally manage to say, my voice trembling. My hands shake. I push a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to gather myself and find some semblance of strength. This is different. This is not just about me anymore. I have a feeling it is about my family, about my past.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound that chills me. “Oh, but I do own you,slatka. You— Yan Petrov’s daughter. Anya Petrov. My property to do with as I please."

The world tilts on its axis. Yan Petrov—John Parker—my father. I don't understand.

It's like the ground has shifted beneath my feet, and I'm falling, tumbling down a bottomless pit with no hope of reachingthe end. Who is this man? What does he know? What does he want?

Nikolai leans back, his gaze piercing, his dark eyes holding mine captive. He begins to explain, his voice a smooth, chillingly calm monotone. "Your father Yan, or John, had— brother, Boris back in Russia. He gambler—reckless man who owed a lot of money to Romanov family. My family, my father Sergei. Your father—out of—duty, lent Boris enough to keep him alive. But Boris owe too much money. He— in over his head,da?So, he make deal with my family, a deal to secure his life. He promised us—child, the child of his brother and his wife, Elena Petrov, in exchange."

He pauses, letting his words sink in. He watches me closely. He revels in my shock and vulnerability.He knows he's winning.

“And that child,” he says, "is you.Anya."

He leans closer, his face inches from mine, his eyes gleaming with a possessive hunger. "You are mine,Anya Petrov. Mine by blood, mine by contract. You were promised to mysemyya, my family before you born. You belong to me."

The air feels suffocating. I can’t breathe, can't think, can't process this new reality. My parents—they made a deal. They promised me away. My entire life is a lie. I don't even know who I am anymore.

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