Page 41 of Stolen By the Don

“I—I…” she stammers. “I should go. Mr. Volkov needs me.”

As she hurries out of my room, I grab the brush again, hurling it at the door when it closes, missing her by a few inches. That—the fact that I could’ve hurt her—is enough to sober me up.

“Jesus,” I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair. It took me a while to prepare, but it looks like a mess in seconds. I stare at my reflection in the mirror again—messy hair, a deep scowl on my lips, and bright red.

This is what he gets.

This is what he deserves.

When I head out of the house an hour later, there’s a limousine parked with the door open. I notice curious glances from the men, but I ignore them.

Let them think what they want. At least one thing will be clear—I didn’t consent to this wedding.

“Such pretense,” I mutter as I get in. It’s empty, save for a bucket with a bottle of champagne, some ice and a few glasses.

“Please help yourself, Miss Ricci,” the driver says before the limo pulls out, driving away from the house. I grab the bottle, open it, and pour myself a glass. Swirling the frothy liquid around, I tip my head back and pour it down my throat.

I know he means I could have one or two, part of whatever service they offer, but getting drunk is the only way I’ll go through the whole wedding without having the urge to punch the priest while he conducts the ceremony.

I’d rather not take out my frustration on an innocent person.

Is the priest even innocent, though?If he’s officiating, then he knows who Roman is. If he does, and he’s allowing a man like him to get married in his chapel, that has to be some offense.

So if I end up punching him…I pour myself another glass, then another, until the bottle is almost empty and I’m buzzed.

Happy married life, Roman Volkov!

Somehow,I manage to go through the whole thing. I don’t remember most of it, because I remain buzzed until the very end and it lasts all of an hour.

No vows. No kissing. As if I’d allow him to come that close to me again. Last night was an egregious mistake. I’ve chosen to blame my near-death experience, and I’ve accepted that I would’ve clung to anyone else if they saved me from dying.

It wasn’t Roman’s charm. I was desperate for warmth.

“Isabella.” He grabs my arm as I walk toward the chapel’s exit doors. I turn with a disgusted look as I glance down at my wrist. “Are you drunk?”

“What a question,” I snort. “How else do you think I lasted through this forced wedding,husband?” Sarcasm drips from the last word.

His jaw tightens as if he’s about to protest, but he exhales, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

“Home?” I yank my hand out of his grip, the word leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “Your house, you mean? And I don’t know why you’re asking. It’s not like I have a choice. I’m a prisoner there, remember?!” I raise my voice, hoping to embarrass him, but he’s unfazed.

He leans in, and I feel his breath against my ear. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. “I know what you’re doing, Isabella. But I should warn you, it ends up looking bad for you. If I have to carry you out of this building, I will. I will have you over my shoulder, even if you scream and yell.”

A flicker of something—intimidation, maybe—twists in my gut, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.

“Do your worst, Roman,” I snap, spinning on my heel and stalking toward the exit, the train of my black wedding dress trailing behind me like a veil of smoke.

The evening air slaps against my flushed cheeks the moment I step outside. Freedom, even if fleeting, fills my lungs. For a second, I imagine bolting. Running until my legs give out. But I know I won’t get far.

His footsteps are quiet, but I feel him before I see him—looming like a shadow I can’t outrun. He catches up with me, and I whirl on him before he can say a word, holding a finger between us like a weapon.

“If you touch me,” I warn, my voice sharp but trembling at the edges, “I will scream ungodly things. I’ll cry out in horror. I’ll say you did things no man can ever walk away from.”

His eyes narrow slightly—not in rage, but calculation. Then, in a voice smooth like velvet cut with steel, he says, “I don’t care what you scream, Isabella. But you will come with me.”

“Murder?” I hiss, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “What if I tell everyone what you did? That you killed my fiancé at the altar?”

His face remains stone, unreadable. But I press forward, anger swelling hot in my throat.

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