Page 21 of Sold to the Bratva
She gestures between us vaguely. “That isn’t exactly the role of apakhan’swife,” she says pointedly.
“I’ve never been married, so I’m not the expert on what apakhan’swife can and can’t do,” I tease. “But it seems to me that it’s a perfectly reasonable dream.”
A flash of unbridled excitement sparks in her eyes, but it fades as quickly as it flared.
“So, what do you paint?” I can’t help but ask.
“Mostly figures and portraits,” she says. “Sometimes I paint emotions I can’t put into words.”
Her whole face glows when she talks about her art. It’s the first time since we met that she’s genuinely happy. Seeing her like this is a rush. She was intriguing when all she showed were sharp edges and fire, but joyful Katya is mesmerizing. I want to give her the world.
As we talk, I can’t help wondering whether she feels the same electricity crackling between us. If she did, she wouldn’t be so eager to escape this marriage.
8
KATYA
Exactly seven days stand between me and becoming Mrs.Kozlova. One pitiful week until my father’s surname evaporates, my own identity bleeding into Isaac’s like black ink in clear water. The very thought sends bile crawling up my throat.
Marrying Isaac still registers as a death sentence and represents the abrupt end of every dream I ever sketched for myself. Worse, I don’t loathe the idea quite as fiercely as I did last week. That’s catastrophic, because my entire escape plan hinges on making Isaac so miserable he pulls the plug himself. He’d be the villain while I played the dutiful, wounded, jilted bride. Father couldn’t blame me for a shattered alliance. I’d just shrug, insist I tried and obeyed, and walk away squeaky-clean.
We could all walk away scot-free and pretend the whole mess never happened, until Isaac’s warning from last night ricochets through my skull. Papa could still marry me off to someone far worse.
The worst thing Isaac can do is prove he isn’t a monster. A low heat simmers between us, one I’d love to ignore, yet he sparks sensations I can barely name.
He’s clever, composed, and, when it suits him, irritatingly charming. Not one of my antics has rattled him, to my endless annoyance. He pushes back just enough to keep me off-balance without breaking me. He even claims he likes my fire, unlike Papa, who’s forever hunting for the nearest extinguisher.
I still want to hate him, yet every day closer to the wedding makes that desire slip through my fingers.
I haven’t breathed a word of any of this to Evie. At the moment she’s holding up a mermaid gown with a plunging neckline, crystals winking across the bodice, her brows arched in exaggerated admiration.
I gag theatrically. “I’d rather be arrested.”
She sighs, drops the hanger back on the rack, and snaps her fingers as if it’s a viable plan. “Hey, that might be your ticket out of this marriage. Or you could run away and start a residency in Vegas.”
“Alas, I can’t sing,” I reply with mock regret. “But seriously, that thing is hideous. I’d never walk down the aisle in it.”
Evie crosses her arms and glowers at the sea of white surrounding us. “I don’t know what youwouldget married in, Katya. You’ve turned down every single dress here.”
“Because I don’t want any of them.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who insisted we come shopping. I’d have been happier taking you to a strip club or throwing you a lingerie party.”
“But then what would I wear down the aisle?”
She snorts. “The lingerie, obviously.”
I flop onto the velvet couch, fingers tunneling through my hair. Finding a wedding dress suddenly feels more impossible than I ever imagined.
The boutique is gorgeous with soaring ceilings, muted lighting, and the constant perfume of peonies. When I was little, this was exactly the kind of place I dreamed of visiting with my mother.
We used to binge wedding reality shows, the two of us glued to the couch while model-tall brides twirled for their mothers’ approval. I’d picture stepping out of a dressing room in the perfect gown, her eyes going glassy with pride. But she’s not here.
Not one of these dresses is perfect. I don’t want any of them, or the entire wedding for that matter, because I’m not marrying a man I chose. I’m exhausted by the pretense that I have any control over my life.
Evie plops down beside me, kicks off her shoes with a groan, and says, “Okay, spill.”
I blink at her. “What?” I honestly have no idea what she’s fishing for.
