Page 28 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
I didn’t want it, I didn’t want to be in this condo, and I certainly didn’t want to be married to the man I thought I’d never see again after our hookup.
Still, I can’t go back and change any of it.
Going home with him and sleeping next to him was the worst decision I could’ve made.
I’m an idiot for ever entertaining it. For ever thinking he was just a rich guy with a charming smile and relatively innocent intentions.
I always tried to be careful, and I thought I was being exactly that. But I was completely wrong.
Now it’s Sunday, and I’ve hardly left the spare room since the ceremony yesterday. Even considering how close the events of Friday night were to this very moment is enough to make my head spin.
I know the door isn’t locked and that he’s at least being good on his word in that sense, I don’t want to go out and face the reality of both my stupid decision and his.
I don’t want to face what I’ve become in a weekend.
Mrs. Lukov.
My chest burns at even acknowledging it.
That name is infamous in Vegas, and while not everyone is aware of the extent of their operations, many have at least heard the name at some point.
Before my brother’s death, the name was nothing more than a secret whispered at parties, brought up to scare one another. It had the same effect as a myth, and many of us grew up believing it was nothing more than that.
After Wyatt died, it became something for me to hate. While the investigators concluded that he just got caught up in some lesser gang activity and happened to cross the wrong people, I didn’t.
I looked as deeply into it as I could, and along the way, I was reminded of the Lukovs and their overseeing of said gangs. It apparently isn’t uncommon for them to have desperate people on the streets doing the dirty work they don’t want to be tied directly to their name.
While I don’t have concrete proof that Mikhail or his siblings had anything to do with my brother’s murder, every instinct of mine is convinced.
Despite all of the darkness and poison surrounding that name, it’s now legally mine.
Trying to keep the panic from overwhelming me completely, I urge myself to stay numb. To force it down until I can vaguely breathe again.
But Monday is drawing closer and closer, and with it is the painful fact that I might not make it to class or to my scheduled labs.
If I miss even one day, I’ll fall behind, and I know as well as anyone else that there are no second chances. Not in such a competitive course.
Yet, I’ve been forced to hand over my autonomy to a man who doesn’t understand what I’ve been through or why this is so important to me.
Mikhail promised I wouldn’t miss out if I agreed to his terms, and now, putting my faith in him to actually follow through with it makes my stomach ache.
My heart starts beating, and I know I’m moments away from spiralling when the bedroom door opens.
I flinch on the spot, tensing like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t, and more knots form in my stomach as I realize it isn’t just Mikhail.
Two men I’ve never seen before enter ahead of him, both dressed in tailored suits with stoic, unwavering faces. They’re both carrying an almost comical number of bags and garment boxes, which they place neatly near the closet.
My brows furrow, and I watch with only confusion. “What is this?”
“Clothes,” Mikhail says simply while he follows behind them, giving the men a brief nod once everything has been dropped off. Then, he faces me. “If you’re staying here and planning on going back into the world, you’ll need something to wear.”
I don’t answer right away as I stare at the bags, seeing those unmistakable designer logos. Even the bags and boxes themselves scream luxury, and I know I have no business being anywhere near them.
While it makes sense, seeing as I can’t live in these clothes forever, something about it still stings.
Being given nice clothes almost feels like he’s attempted to brand me. At the very least, styling me how he wants. He’s molding me into the wife he wants, as if I somehow belong in this world of his.
Mikhail reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a thin black top. “Pick out something nice—I don’t care what. We’re having dinner with my family.”
