Page 4 of Prince of Control
Chapter One
Three days later
Baron
I’m not a man of “big feels,” but I always thought I’d feel something on my wedding day.
I also imagined I would actually know the woman I was marrying. And be out of college already.
I’m in my Range Rover on the tarmac of the private airfield, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I wait for the jet to arrive with my bride.
The woman my father told me three days ago I could protect by putting a ring on her finger.
Lara Turgeneva has no social media for me to troll. Probably because she’s a bratva princess and, like the rest of us, was taught to keep a low profile.
I had Anya scour the internet, but she came up dry until she hacked the Russian government to uncover a passport and driver’s license photo. It’s hard to tell much from them. She might be pretty; she might not.
No one looks good in those pictures.
Supposedly, we knew each other as toddlers before her family moved from Chicago back to Moscow. I remember nothing. I wish I knew something about her. She’s probably scared. I don’t have any plans to get into a genuine romantic relationship with her, but I’ll do my best to make things comfortable. This is awkward for both of us. I’ll make sure she understands that I don’t expect her to consummate the marriage or share my bed.
She can even date whomever she likes, if she’s careful and keeps it a secret.
The roar of jet engines makes me peer up through the windshield. A small jet glides in and makes an elegant touchdown. I wait until they’ve opened the door and attached the gangplank before I climb out of the Range Rover.
I wore a suit. Not to impress my bride but as a show of good faith. To show her I don’t want this, but I will make it work. I will follow my father’s instructions: pick her up, marry her, and install her in Baranov House, where I can protect her. Except we can’t get married until twenty-four hours after we’ve picked up the marriage license.
I’m not doing it because my father asked it of me although I would’ve done it for him. While I’m certain he’s a ruthless killer, and I know he’s the head of an international crime organization, he commands nothing but my love and respect.
Like I said, I would’ve done this without his request. When I heard who was trying to marry Lara and why she needed my protection, I couldn’t refuse.
Brash Rostov is a psychopath. I went to prep school in Switzerland with him for one miserable year. He’s the son of the notorious Russian oligarch, Anatoli Rostov. If he were simply arrogant and full of himself like the rest of the rich assholes I had to suffer space with that year, I’d leave Lara to her chances with him. But there’s no one–not even a woman I don’t remember–that I’d let marry that sadistic beast when all I had to do to save her was give her my name.
I got thrown out of that school because I beat the shit out of Brash.
He is everything that is wicked and wrong about the Russian oligarchy–a hateful sadist who I heard had tortured teachers, animals, and younger boys.
The girls found him charming, as I recall, because he was good at hiding that side of himself with them. But I caught him choking the librarian’s daughter, and that was the end of private prep school for me.
If I’d known getting kicked out would be so easy, I would’ve picked a fight with him sooner. I hated living with those arrogant old-moneyed svolochs although that year prepared me for success at Thornecroft.
If Brash and his father are after Lara, I’m happy to step in and be the roadblock he can’t get around. As far as Brash knows, Lara’s dad promised her hand to me at birth, and he couldn’t get out of the arrangement without risking a war with mine.
I approach the stairs as a slender figure appears in the doorway.
Lara wears black loungewear, like she’s mourning our upcoming nuptials. She piled her dark hair on top of her head in a messy bun. A large purse is slung over one shoulder, and when her gaze lands on me, her arm tightens down on it, like she’s scared I’ll steal it.
I puzzle over that gesture as we approach each other.
She carries herself with authority, shoulders square, chin lifted. Good. She’s not some frightened mouse I’ll have to comfort. The less emotionally involved we become, the better. That will make it easier to divorce when the marriage is no longer necessary.
As she draws closer, I can study her face. She’s gorgeous. Dark, messy hair that’s thick and wild. Her skin is pale, her wide-set eyes bright blue. A dusting of dark freckles covers her nose. She wears little or no makeup–her beauty is natural. She studies me back from under thick, natural lashes. Her lips are full, but they’re set in a tight line like she’s pissed.
That’s when I start to teeter off my white steed. I was thinking of myself as the knight in shining armor–here to save the damsel in distress.
But the damsel looks like she wants to throat-punch me.
I stop approaching and let her come to me. I’d planned on a cheek kiss. Maybe a quick embrace if she’s a hugger. Since she looks more like a crotch-kicker, I abort any plans of touching her.
