Page 34 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
15
PAYTON
He looks me up and down, and huffs out a furious breath. The phone clatters to the floor.
My sister is okay, and she knows I’m fine too. The weight from my shoulders is wonderful, but that’s all mixed up with my gut churning. Feliks said I was his, and I went against his express instructions.
I’m not his good girl.
The silence between us is unbearable. A ticking bomb before it explodes.
“Sorry,” I mutter eventually.
His brows lower even further, and if a man can have an internal battle raging inside of him, that’s Feliks right now.
“You will be,” he snarls, and it’s a lightning strike, burning down my spine.
Jaw clenched, he seizes my hand and drags me with him into the bedroom. Fear squeezes my throat as I look up at Feliks’ eyes, which have gone as wild as a winter storm at sea.
Abruptly, he drops my hand and strips off his shorts. I go bug-eyed.
“Put the white dress on,” he snaps as he pulls on a pair of pale tan linen trousers.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
“White. Dress. Now.” His tone has me scrambling to obey.
By the time I’ve managed to get it over my head, my hands shaking, Feliks is wearing a white shirt open at the collar, a tan suit, and shoes, and is watching me impatiently, no sign of humour or affection on his face.
The next thing I know, he’s lifted and tossed me over his shoulder.
“Feliks!” I yell. Well. Squeal.
He makes for the front door we entered through, and I uselessly wriggle. His arm is braced tight over my thighs, and my chest is draped over his strong back. I’m hit by the fresh warm air as we leave the air-conditioned house, the door slamming behind us.
“Feliks, what are you doing?” I ask, propping myself up with my hands on his buttocks. He does have an exceptional bottom, even if he’s a grumpy kidnapper.
He doesn’t answer, but I recognise the path we took when he drove us from the jetty and distress crowds my mind. Is he getting rid of me? Taking me somewhere else? What does “mine” really mean?
But instead of going to the old pickup or continuing that direction on foot, he takes a smaller track.
“Feliks?” I try again, but he still refuses to reply. “I’m so sorry, but I had to talk to my sister. She’ll have been beside herself.”
“I know,” he says abruptly.
That’s good, I guess?
“So, why don’t you put me down?”
He doesn’t reply, and I crane my neck to look around at where we’re going. Moments later, we’re through the trees and the path opens out to another beach, maybe even more beautiful than the one at the beach house.
In the middle of the sand there’s a wooden arch covered in flowers and draped white fabric. I gape as Feliks strides over to it, stopping abruptly underneath.
He slides me down his body, rucking up the long dress I’m wearing, but I can feel every part of him, hard, on all my soft curves. Including the hardness between his legs that presses into me.
By the time my bare feet touch the sand, I’m hot everywhere, and squirming.
Feliks still doesn’t say anything, but he takes a step away, a bit reluctantly, as though being out of arm’s reach is as painful for him as it is for me.
