Page 5 of The Russian's Forced Bride
Is it her beauty?I wondered, tilting my head as I admired her delicate features.
She extended her hand to me, waiting for an introduction.
“Rafael Kamarov,” I said to her, offering a polite smile as I took her hand in mine, an invisible spark flowing through my veins as our skin touched.
She quickly withdrew her hand as if she had been burned, a glare replacing her previously saddened expression, and I figured it had something to do with me being a Kamarov.
“He was with your people.Youcaused this,” she claimed, shaking her head in anger. “It doesn’t make any sense that he’s the only one who’s been hurt.”
Her voice was raw with pain, a feeling I couldn’t relate to, but I was certainly offended by her baseless accusations. If anything, the Bratva had offered him protection for as long as he lived.
His death would be collateral damage.
“If the Bratva had caused his attack, I wouldn’t be here wasting my time,” I told her. “Investigations are underway to find whoever was, but in the meantime, I suggest you don’t throw baseless accusations.”
She seemed taken aback by my response. Her lips quivered, as if she was holding back from yelling at me.
It almost made me smile to see her face redden in anger, but I kept a somewhat caring façade even though I didn’t give a damn about her father’s condition.
She then scoffed at me in disbelief. “You’re insufferable.”
This time, I did smile. “I’m only telling the truth. You should be thanking us. Your father could’ve died way before now.”
Her eyes flicked right as the door to Jaxon Whitmore’s hospital room swung open, and without giving me a second look,she hurried down the hallway to meet the doctor while I stood still, my eyes still fixed on her.
I found her interesting, and I rarely found anything interesting.
I could still smell her in the room, a teasing scent that tickled my nostrils.
But as interesting as she was, I also found her annoying and was glad she was finally gone.
I returned to my seat, watching the doctor talk to her and seeing her emotions break down with each word he said before she went into the room.
I leaned my head against the chair, closing my eyes for a moment, and there she was, like an intoxicating mist clouding my senses.
It irritated me.
But like a mantra, I found myself repeating her name.
Arlette. Arlette Whitmore.
Fuck.
Chapter 2 – Arlette
The cathedral was eerily cold, like the body of Father’s corpse. It rested raised on a rectangular platform directly in front of the pulpit. The choir echoed a mournful requiem—slow and painful—as a solemn atmosphere filled the room, which was dimly lit, reflecting the darkness I felt inside my heart.
A hollowness filled me, a feeling of emptiness I couldn’t quite put into words.
Father’s casket was beautifully crafted with detailed markings and made from expensive oak wood, just as he would’ve liked. He always seemed to carry himself with dignity, regardless of the situation, so I figured he was at least smiling down at his casket from wherever he was.
He had also always said he wanted to be remembered for his legacy and wealth. He was confident he had made a significant mark on the world, but if only he knew just how mistaken he was.
The cathedral was sparsely filled, and I could count how many of us were there, seated on the wooden benches. Alice, my stepmother, whom he married after my mother’s death years ago, was dressed in a black turtleneck dress and covered with a veil that hid her stone-cold features as she sat beside me, barely shedding a tear. I wasn’t surprised. She had always been more passive, and in some ways, I thought she was rather relieved at Dad’s death.
My adopted brother, Jacob, on the other hand, was seated behind us, bawling his eyes out, and if things weren’t so serious, I probably would’ve laughed in amusement. He had flown all the way from New Jersey, and if Father hadn’t passed, I was sure I wouldn’t have seen him for the next few years.
Though they were my family, I was the only one left with Dad’s blood. His heir.
