“Oh, I dare,” I answer, stepping into her. Her eyes widen as I cast off the façade of a reasonable man, gripping her chin between my fingers. “Because I am far from reasonable when it comes to protecting what’s mine.” Her eyes widen, her breath fragrant on my face. “Yes, milaya. You can keep denying it, but it doesn’t make it any less true. You put yourself in this position, and this is how we fix it. You’re mine from this point onward, so deal with it.”
She twists viciously away. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“Asking would suggest some rationality,” I grate out. “Some thought for self-preservation. But Lady Isla doesn’t deign to bother the mortal folk. She just strides through her life thinking the shit of it will never touch her.”
“You know nothing,” she yells. “My life is not a bed of roses—it never has been!”
“Better no bed of petals than a bed of thorns.” I expect her to turn my words into an accusation, but nothing comes. An uncomfortable silence falls between us, one I have neither the time nor the will for. Unclamping my molars, I begin again in a more reasonable tone. “Isla, if anything had happened to you—”
“Your fear doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a chattel.” Arms crossed, she swings away from me.
“Blame me all you like but you put yourself in this situation. Don’t you have a thought for your own safety? The risk you put yourself to? Alexander was aghast, I can tell you.”
She swings around with a growl, her face red, her eyes glistening. “Oh, piss off, Van! And don’t try to tell me Sandy will ever be okay with your proposal. Oh, sorry.” She ducks, feigning girlish embarrassment. “You didn’t actually propose, did you? You just decided for me!”
“You have a choice. You deal with me, or your deal with Aslanov. And whomever he passes you off to when he grows bored.”
“Bored?”
“Bored fucking you.” As if that were even possible.
“You are…”
“Oh, I am everything you’re thinking and a hundred times worse. But better the devil you know. Better the devil who knows how to look after you.” Better the devil desperate to hold you.
“If you’re waiting for me to agree that this is the best idea in the history of ideas, don’t hold your breath. Oh, actually, do!”
“I’d like to keep breathing, thanks. You don’t wish me dead.” Yet, I add silently.
“I don’t want to get married. I didn’t even want to marry Tom!”
“Why did you?”
“That has nothing to do with you,” she retorts loftily, her chin raised along with her lie. “I can’t marry you—I don’t even like you!” She throws her arms out in front, part petition, part disgust.
“We both know that’s not entirely true.” My gaze rakes over her from the crown of her head to the tips of her red pumps. “There are parts of me you like. There’s always a bright side.”
“What’s that?” She looks like she could bite off her tongue for asking.
“Marry me, marry my cock. Think of the unlimited access.”
I chuckle at her lack of amusement, prompting her to turn away again. “I could go to the police.”
“The Russian mafia tend not to have much respect for His Majesty’s constabulary.”
“The mafia?” She swings back to face me.
“Mafia. Vory. Bratva. Whatever you’d like to call them. You had a breakfast meeting with a member of the Russian mob. Did he enjoy the eggs?”
“I didn’t… how do you know what he ate?”
“Because I had an afternoon meeting with the same bastard,” I growl, pointing at my battered knuckles. The bastard has a face like an iron girder. His wrists, thankfully, weren’t so troublesome. “That’s how I know he had fucking eggs, and that’s how I know where he fucking touched you. And that’s how I know the only way to save your reckless but delectable ass is by tying it to me permanently.”
“Are you a member of the Russian mafia?” she asks, aghast.
Out of all of the avenues that statement might’ve taken her, this is the one question I’d dreaded.
“No, Isla. I’m someone much worse.” I’m the Avtoritet, the authority behind the outfit.
“What does that mean?” she asks hesitantly. “Are you a criminal?”
“Wealth and crime go hand in hand.”
“Well. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means you’re getting on a plane with me in two hours and flying far away, whether you like it or not.”
“I like it not!” she yells and actually stamps her foot. “I can’t go with you, I have my sons, my family. My business!”
“They’ll still be here when we return. Better yet, they’ll all be safe from harm.”
“You’re bonkers!” she says, throwing up her hands. “Stark raving mad! You have to be. I can’t—” Her panicked gaze falls over my body without once rising to my face. “I just can’t. And you can’t make me.”