In a flash he’s crossed the room and has my hair in his fist, leaning over me—towering over me.
“Wouldn’t I?” he growls menacingly. “It would be my pleasure to end the beginning of a family and that bastard Collins. It will be my pleasure to end him when he comes for you.”
“No!” I gasp, scrambling for something to say that could end this madness.
“Yes, my pet. I’m going to enjoy ending the man who touched my bride.”
“I’m not your bride! I won’t marry you.”
His fist tightens in my hair, and he leans in closer, looking me in the eye. “You will marry me. You have no choice in this matter. It’s already done. You see, it’s time for me to make an heir to my throne, and you, mymalen’kiy persik, will give him to me.
“I won’t,” I say with a cry as he roughly grips my face in his fierce hand.
“You will learn I like my woman fiery, but I will expect nothing less than obedience from you.”
My breath stutters in my chest at the insane look in his eyes. Fear like I’ve never felt before fills me. My knees shake and my stomach churns. My only hope now is that Jasper somehow makes it past Dima’s goons and through Dima himself to save me from myself and what I’ve done.
I never should’ve left. I should’ve trusted Jasper to keep us all safe. But no. I had to be a martyr, and look at me now. I’m in an impossible situation that will likely get someone—maybe me—killed.
Dima releases me, and I stumble away.
“Now that we understand each other let us enjoy a drink before our wedding.”
I blink at him in confusion. We settled nothing. He’s delusional. Maybe a little crazy… mad like the Hatter even.
“I’m not thirsty,” I reply, taking two steps away from him.
“Of course you are. You’ve been through an ordeal.”
He pours two fingers of what looks like vodka into a glass and hands it to me. I don’t drink it. I have a feeling I’m going to need a sober mind for whatever is to come.
There’s a knock on the door, and my hopes rise, thinking maybe it could be Jasper. But no, it’s two women with a rack of white dresses between them.
Wedding dresses.
Shit just got real.
“Ah, here they are. Now it’s time to dress my bride. Our guests will be arriving at the church soon. We wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
“I-” I start to protest, but one of the women grabs my arm and pulls me towards the hallway and deeper into the apartment. I try to wrench my arm out of her grasp, but she digs her nails in deep as she leads me away.
They push me into a bedroom and start speaking in rapid Russian to each other. The woman with her claws in my arm releases me and looks me up and down, clearly finding me wanting.
“Strip,” she commands.
I shake my head rapidly. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“No. You are the bride. We are to make you worthy of Mr. Sokolov. Somehow.” She sneers.
Ouch. That stings my pride a little. Not that I want anyone to mistake me for Dima’s bride, but still. No one wants to hear they aren’t up to snuff.
“Come, wash your face,” the other woman says. She’s younger. Pretty with dark eyes and dark hair.
I decide that arguing with these two is going to get me nowhere, so I do as she requests and wash my face. I linger longer than necessary, looking at my freshly cleaned face in the mirror, wondering what the hell I’m going to do to get out of this mess.
“Hurry up!” the older, grumpier woman shouts, causing me to jump.
Regretfully I can’t hide in here forever. I drag my feet leaving the bathroom, feeling sick to my stomach the moment the rack of dresses comes into view. The younger woman is pulling a dress off the rack and is holding it up, studying it. She turns to me with the dress in hand, and I gulp.