Page 5 of Prince of Control
“Lara.”
There’s something familiar about her, even though I have no memories of her from childhood. We were just preschoolers when she moved away.
Her big blue eyes narrow, and she stops in front of me, still keeping that purse of hers held tightly to her side. “Da.” Her tone is cutting. She lifts her chin, spreading her free hand and gesturing down her body. “Here I am–as summoned by your family to be your wife,” she says in Russian. “I hope I’m what you expected.”
I blink, careful to keep my expression blank as my brain scrambles to catch up.
Then I put it together. She was told the lie.
For whatever reason, her father didn’t trust her with the truth. Either he doesn’t think she’s capable of playing pretend, or she was actually in love with Brash.
If it’s the latter, I’m out. She can have him. I don’t need to suffer the disdain of a woman who thinks my family would control her future like she’s chattel.
Except even as I think of throwing her back to him, something in me rebels. Not just my protective side although I still would defend her against any man who tried to hurt her. Not just the most competitive part of me that needs to win any contest against Brash. Beyond that, a possessiveness rises up in me that I’ve never felt before.
As I look at the fiery woman glaring at me, I abandon my previous plan to keep this marriage a sham. She belongs to me. We belong together. I’m not sure why I believe that, but it’s something about the way she seems familiar. But not like I knew her before–more like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet her. I’m turned on by everything about her. Not the least, that she presents a challenge.
The fact is, Lara is mine.
She was fake-promised to me, but we’ll be legally wed, and that means I’m the guy–the only guy–who gets to have her.
Is she what I expected? I reply in English, my tone dry. “Not really.”
Her pale skin flushes pink. At least I know she speaks English.
I hold out my hand. “Come. We have a marriage license to pick up.”
Lara
Benjamin Baranov doesn’t look as menacing as my father and most of his associates, but I get the feeling he’s deceptively dangerous. Blond hair falls across his forehead in a casual, beachy style, but his eyes, framed by thick, dark brows, appear ancient in his young face.
Dressed in an expensive suit, he doesn’t look like a college student playing dress-up. He wears it with casual elegance. There’s no outward aggression in his posture, just quiet power in the carriage of his shoulders. Like he rules his kingdom with control and cool, calculated decisions.
I clutch my purse closer to me as the flight attendants follow us to Benjamin’s shiny black SUV with the five giant suitcases that contain all the belongings I could pack in the hour my father gave me before bundling me into the private jet.
Just yesterday, I’d come home, exhausted from a day of classes at Académie Internationale des Langues de Paris followed by a three-hour shift for my new internship. The one I spent the first two years of college setting myself up to get. I opened the door to find my father sitting at my kitchen table with a deep frown between his brows.
He hadn’t told me he’d left Moscow to fly to Paris. When I asked if he brought my mom, he said she was too angry with him.
Stupid me.
I’d thought he’d come to tell me they were getting a divorce.
Never in a million years could I have predicted this.
* * *
“Pack your things, Lara. I’m sending you to Illinois.”
I blink. My brain stops computing. “What?”
He nods with a grave look. “There’s something I should have told you a long, long time ago.”
My heart slams against my ribs wildly. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“I entered a contract with Ravil Baranov when you were a baby .”
I stare at him. None of this makes sense. Ravil Baranov is the powerful pakhan of the Chicago Bratva, where my father entered into the brotherhood. They are close associates. Friends.
