Page 24 of The Russian's Forced Bride
Yes, I threatened to shoot her.
And there was that kiss in the cellar too, but—
“Fine.” Her voice cut through the awkward silence between us. “I’ll stay still like fucking livestock. Just leave me alone. You don’t have to threaten me to get me to listen to you.”
“Arlette—you’ll be safe,” I tried to reassure her, but then she looked at me with that resentment that made my skin crawl.
If she hated me so much, why did it always feel like she wanted me too? Why didn’t she just push me away when I kissed her in the cellar?
“Bullshit.” She shook her head at me and then laughed quietly. “Everything about this—about us—is bullshit. I don’t even know who to trust anymore,” she whispered to herself, and then, with one last shake of her head, she walked out of the room.
I watched her walk away in confusion. It was clear her emotions were spiraling, but she said something that got my attention.
Joaquin and Jaxon were supposedly close. Not just at the business associate level, but judging by how hurt she looked when his name came up, they were probably just drinking buddies at most.
I sighed, rubbing my temples as I strode toward the refrigerator in my study to grab a drink. I picked up a bottle of vodka and a shot glass before heading back to my seat.
Matvey had promised he would send all the information he had about Joaquin’s whereabouts during the alleged honeymoon timeframe. But time was running out.
If Joaquin could track Jaxon all the way to the Kamarov mansion, he could find Arlette and me anywhere.
I drowned a shot of vodka in my hands as I tried to bury myself in work, and for a while, it worked—until hours later, a loud cry echoed through the building, instantly heightening my senses. I didn’t have to think hard to recognize the voice asArlette’s. I rushed out of the room, feeling an urgency that made my heart pound.
It felt like I’d been driven back into the past, a past where screams tore out from the underground cells and rooms where Father would torture people.
Their screams echoed, tearing in my ears sharply, as a sick image of Arlette lying in her own pool of blood haunted my mind while I ran down the hall from my office to where her scream emanated from—her room.
And with my heart pounding loudly enough to make my ears ring, I kicked her door wide open, fearing I would see a grotesque image I could never forget until the day I died.
But there she was, in her dimly lit room with her grand bed, curled up with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, and her head buried in her knees as her body trembled. Her sobs filled the room, reaching even beyond the stone-carved walls.
I had never seen her look so scared in my life.
I rushed toward her, ignoring that we were supposed to hate each other. A part of me that I thought had died years ago flooded back as I climbed onto her bed and embraced her rocking body.
She was shaking violently, as if she had seen a ghost.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, hugging her trembling body beneath me. “You’re safe. Fuck, I won’t let anything happen to you,” I promised her, and I meant it.
She didn’t fight back, and through her sobs, I could hear her whispering the word, “Mom,” in an erratic voice.
And then it hit me. In the report Matvey gave me about Arlette, it mentioned that her mother had died. A car crash was what the media reported, but the report claimed there was foul play involved. But since it didn’t concern the Bratva, no one ever bothered to look deeper into the case.
But I cared because it seemed to cut deeply into Arlette, and even though she never showed it, she was traumatized.
And I wasn’t going to let her end up like I did—broken and emotionally drained.
So I gently lifted her head until her tear-glossed eyes were staring deep into mine.
“I swear. I swear it,kroshka. I’d die before I let anything happen to you.” I brushed away the tears that were streaming down her face like waterworks, and then, unlike when I had madly kissed her before, I gently pressed my lips to hers—softly and seeking her permission.
She was tense at first, and I feared she would pull away from my touch, but then her lips pressed against mine, slowly yet willing.
I moved closer to her as our breaths mixed. It was intoxicating to hold her like this, our bodies pressed together. She was still crying, and I could taste the salt of her tears during our kiss.
And instead of being driven by lust like I had been at the cellar, I was driven by something else. Something I couldn’t quite grasp.
Her hands explored under my T-shirt, the warmth of her touch tracing my abs, and I suppressed a groan. I wanted more, but now wasn’t the time.
