Everything was proceeding as planned. Better than Roman could have ever hoped, in fact. In the last month he had played his part well. And if somewhere deep within his soul his conscience thrashed, he ruthlessly thrust it aside, focusing instead on the end goal.
But strangely, as he stood at the top of the aisle of the small church with domed ceilings and faded frescos, as he smiled at Claudette, who already had a handkerchief pressed to the corners of her eyes, in the pews with only two others—neighbours who had known Ella since she was a child—acting as witnesses, he felt unease stirring in his chest.
Roman had no intention of making this marriage real. He was a monster, but not so much of one that he would take her innocence. He was sure that Vladimir would agree to his demands and the marriage would be annulled almost as quickly as it would take for Ella to say, I do. But, in spite of that mental assurance to himself, the small ceremony felt...more real than anything had for a long time.
A small whine from the floor drew his attention to Dorcas. The priest had been a little dubious about the prospect of having an animal in attendance, but Ella had insisted. Roman was half convinced that she loved the dog as much as she appeared to have fallen in love with her fiancé. Thinking of himself in the third person in relation to Ella had been almost the only way to isolate himself from her effect.
It had been Ella’s fiancé who had whisked her away to Paris. Ella’s fiancé who had listened to her hopes and dreams and Ella’s fiancé who had believed very strongly in the sanctity of marriage. For if it had been Roman himself, he would have devoured her completely on that very first day and ruined the only bargaining chip he had with Vladimir.
Roman had always marvelled at the value placed on a woman’s innocence. Yet in the month that he had worked hard to preserve Ella’s, for her own sake as much as his, he had begun to understand the fascination and had happily consigned his frustrated desire for her as the price he had to pay for his vengeance.
Dorcas whined again from where she sat by his feet, and stared up at him as if questioning whether he knew what he was doing. He frowned at the dog, a dominant warning growl threatening to rumble in his throat, and finally she turned her attention back to the church door as if knowing Ella stood on the other side.
And Roman couldn’t help but be curious as to what those doors would reveal when they parted, excusing the sense of all-consuming anticipation as mild interest rather than the raging beast of desire. He had offered to arrange for her to go to Paris in search of a wedding dress, but she had smiled and simply stated that she had it ‘covered’.
Simple. On the surface that was what Ella seemed to be, but over the last few weeks he had realised that she was nothing of the sort. In an odd way, getting to know her had been like watching someone grow into themselves. Evolve, develop, try and test things out, ideas and hopes and dreams. All the things he had never been able to do himself, after being thrust into adulthood at the age of thirteen when his mother had died. The hardships and devastation of the following years as he had been moved from foster home to foster home, working any part-time job he could, saving every single penny for the university education he knew he would need if he was ever to get himself to a rich enough position to be able to get his revenge. Determination as much as a shockingly intense intellect had been all he’d needed to succeed.
That and an almost preternatural ability to identify what it was that a person most wanted in this world.
At school, his stature and intellect had seemed to entice weak-minded bullies who sought to either befriend or remove a possible threat to their power. But Roman had never entertained t
heir games, nor had he existed within any specific circle—instead staying on the fringes, a lone wolf, ready and able to befriend or berate as suited his own personal needs. For he had learned at a young age that true power was about dependence and manipulation. Getting someone to willingly hand over what it was he wanted was far more valuable than coercion.
And as he grew older, through university and the following years building up a personal empire that made him one of the richest men in the western hemisphere, he had used that skill very well indeed. He had amassed a vast property empire, including a number of highly sought after and deeply exclusive nightclubs, but his true skill lay in brokering hugely successful business deals for others...at an eye-wateringly high price of course. His telephone contact list boasted several royals and world leaders on speed dial, more than a few oligarchs, and one or two more nefarious characters.
But, in spite of this, his one goal was Kolikov Holdings. It was his mother’s birthright, had her own father not cast her aside the moment she had failed to give in to his wishes and marry Nathaniel Riding. Instead, she had fallen in love with a weak-minded carpenter who had been bought off by Vladimir the moment he had discovered Tatiana’s unmarried pregnancy. As she had refused to give in to her father’s demands and terminate her child, Vladimir had severed all ties to his daughter and grandchild, emotional and financial. And Roman would make sure that he would pay for his actions.
The way he had felt when he had first realised that Ella had replaced his mother’s position had been as if his heart were gripped in a steel vice. In fact, it had been as the door had slammed on his face when he had begged and pleaded with Vladimir to provide the necessary finances to fund his mother’s treatment that he had first laid eyes on her. A little blonde girl of five years, hair curling around chubby cheeks and little fists grabbing for toys, the like of which Roman had never seen before in his life. He had ducked behind the bushes that lined his grandfather’s estate in Moscow and watched in rage as this little girl played happily with all the things that he and his mother had been denied. It had not taken much investigation to discover the story of the daughter who had been presented to Vladimir as his ward, nor had it taken long to realise that she was presently enjoying a life that should have been his mother’s.
And while he acknowledged that he could not place the blame for this at her feet, over the next few years he realised that Ella had become the apple of his grandfather’s eye. The one and only object of sentiment the old man seemed to possess, aside from his precious Kolikov Holdings. And while the bastard had shored up any and all attempts to breach the impenetrable walls around his company, Roman had marvelled at how the man had somehow managed to leave his ward so utterly vulnerable in this world.
Vladimir had seemed to delight in showing off the exquisitely beautiful trophy child at the Russian Debutante ball in London, or presenting her at some high-profile gala across the globe, and every picture, every newspaper article only twisted the knife deeper and confirmed his conviction that she was the only way to truly get what he wanted: Vladimir to hand over control of the company that should be Roman’s by right. Vladimir to pass ownership to the man he’d called a worthless bastard, good for nothing more than begging for scraps from a man who would rather cut his own nose off than acknowledge Roman’s legitimacy. And once Roman had control of that company he would tear it apart piece by piece right in front of Kolikov.
The creak of the large wooden door at the bottom of the church drew Roman’s thoughts back to the present. There she was. The key to his revenge. He was sure that it was that knowledge that made his heart leap in his chest—not the stunning sight of the lamb about to be sacrificed on the altar of his revenge.
Ella was dressed in an oyster silk dress, simple lines clinging to a figure most women would have paid thousands of euros to achieve. The low V of the dress moulded to Ella’s perfect frame and his heart beat a powerful tattoo that he was too stunned to fight. Something primal roared within him. Need and want a heady combination that burned through his veins and his soul. But he’d sold his soul long ago and couldn’t turn back now—no matter how much he might want to.
He felt his pupils widen as if trying to take as much in of the image of Ella before him. As if trying desperately to consume every single detail of this moment. And, for some inexplicable reason, he felt as if it would be his last. Because after this moment, after they said I do, it would all change. Because the moment she discovered the truth she would hate him with every fibre of her being, and he would deserve it.
In some twisted way, his inner voice lashed at those thoughts in self-defence.
Better she finds out now what Vladimir is like. What I am like. Because her innocence, her naivety, won’t get her far in this life.
Just like it hadn’t for him or his mother.
But as the words of the priest washed over him, joining them as husband and wife, as the music played to signal the end of the service and he was directed to kiss his bride, Roman lost all thought of revenge, of the separate person who had married Ella Riding, of his promise to leave her untouched. Instead he focused on the soft lips parting beneath his—the gentle, sweet sweep of Ella’s tongue as she opened for him, as she enticed him further into her depths. He lost his head and drew her to him, heedless of the gentle laughter of the few others in the small church, and wished that it could be different.
Reluctantly he pulled back, because it wasn’t different, and he wasn’t. The only gift he could give her on her wedding day would be to leave her unsullied by his touch. Even if it nearly killed him.
CHAPTER THREE
She had stalked his woods and haunted his dreams. She had strayed from the path...and now she was his, to do with as he wished.
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
MARRIED. SHE WAS MARRIED. Ella pressed her fingers to her lips, still thrumming from the kiss that had sealed her fate. There had been kisses between them before—of course there had—but nothing compared to the searing passion she’d felt almost consuming her the moment he’d claimed her before the priest and God. Ever since, her body had been in a constant state of awareness, soaring between hot and cold, both of which produced goose bumps across her skin, prickles of need and want. Heat coiled low within her and nothing would satiate it. Certainly not the hooded glances she felt from Roman when he thought she was not looking.