Page 11 of Stolen By the Don

She’s wearing a shirt. Just a shirt, hanging well above her knees. The shirt covers barely enough to keep my mind from making a U-turn in the previous direction. And it’s mine.

“Isabella.” Her name is like a scratched record on my tongue, and I can’t help but glance at the hem of the shirt.

She follows my gaze and then meets my eyes again with a shrug. “You didn’t give me anything to wear. I slept in my wedding dress—thank you very much—and then I had to scavenge for this. If you’re going to kidnap a woman on her wedding day, the least you could do is bring a change of clothes.”

For all her smart talk, she pulls the shirt lower, fighting for more length before crossing her arms over her chest.

“Polina will get you clothes tomorrow,” I say.

Isabella shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Sure. As long as she knows to get them in my size. If you’re wondering what I was doing in the kitchen…” She holds out the core of an apple. “I was hungry. You might be Count Dracula and dine on blood, but some of us haven’t sold our human hunger for fame and fortune.”

I blink once, slowly. “What?”

She sighs, annoyed that I didn’t immediately catch on. “It means there’s barely any food. Not that it’s your problem.”

My voice stays flat as I respond. “Polina will get you something.”

“Sure.” She shrugs. Then she starts walking off, bare feet padding against the marble, before tossing over her shoulder, “I might as well die of starvation before my father finds me.”

The way she says he’ll find her with such certainty has my eyes narrowing. The phone.

“Isabella.”

She pauses on the second step and turns.

I watch her eyes, observing them for the truth she’s trying to hide. “If you know where your father is, it will be best to tell me.”

“Tell you?” she scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You want to kill him. Why would I tell you where he is so you can kill him? Besides…” She blows out a breath. “I don’t know where he is. He didn’t attend my wedding, remember?”

She knows something.

I intend to find out one way or another, even if it means I have to carry out certain plans earlier than intended. “Inform him that you’re getting married in a week,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen.Fear.

“And beginning tonight, we’ll be sleeping in the same bedroom.”

4

ISABELLA

When I was ten, I had a severe ear infection that led to me having to use a hearing aid for a couple of weeks. Now, I’m pretty sure the infection must’ve returned, because I can’t have heard Roman correctly.

The first part—getting married—I heard. He said it when he walked into the cathedral and tossed me over his shoulder.

The second?

I struggle to keep my jaw from dropping, and my hand goes clammy, making my grip on the railing slippery. My fingers tremble as he stares at me—no expression, barely readable.

“Bedroom?” I squeak.

Roman nods, his tone unwavering. “Yes. You’re my fiancée, and there are certain duties I demand of you. The first night was to give you enough time to settle in. Tonight, you do what’s required.”

What’s required?!Inside my head, my thoughts are screaming. He means sex. That’s the only explanation for what he just said.

No. No. No freaking way.

He’s hot, a silver fox with an amazing build and a physique that would probably work on me if we met at a club or something, butno. I’m not ever letting Roman Volkov, the man who kidnapped me from the church, made me his prisoner, declared that he was going to marry me…see me naked.

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