Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Like I said, I would’ve done this without his request. When I heard who was trying to marry Lara and why she needed my protection, I couldn’t refuse.
Brash Rostov is a psychopath. I went to prep school in Switzerland with him for one miserable year. He’s the son of the notorious Russian oligarch, Anatoli Rostov. If he were simply arrogant and full of himself like the rest of the rich assholes I had to suffer space with that year, I’d leave Lara to her chances with him. But there’s no one–not even a woman I don’t remember–that I’d let marry that sadistic beast when all I had to do to save her was give her my name.
I got thrown out of that school because I beat the shit out of Brash.
He is everything that is wicked and wrong about the Russian oligarchy–a hateful sadist who I heard had tortured teachers, animals, and younger boys.
The girls found him charming, as I recall, because he was good at hiding that side of himself with them. But I caught him choking the librarian’s daughter, and that was the end of private prep school for me.
If I’d known getting kicked out would be so easy, I would’ve picked a fight with him sooner. I hated living with those arrogant old-moneyed svolochs although that year prepared me for success at Thornecroft.
If Brash and his father are after Lara, I’m happy to step in and be the roadblock he can’t get around. As far as Brash knows, Lara’s dad promised her hand to me at birth, and he couldn’t get out of the arrangement without risking a war with mine.
I approach the stairs as a slender figure appears in the doorway.
Lara wears black loungewear, like she’s mourning our upcoming nuptials. She piled her dark hair on top of her head in a messy bun. A large purse is slung over one shoulder, and when her gaze lands on me, her arm tightens down on it, like she’s scared I’ll steal it.
I puzzle over that gesture as we approach each other.
She carries herself with authority, shoulders square, chin lifted. Good. She’s not some frightened mouse I’ll have to comfort. The less emotionally involved we become, the better. That will make it easier to divorce when the marriage is no longer necessary.
As she draws closer, I can study her face. She’s gorgeous. Dark, messy hair that’s thick and wild. Her skin is pale, her wide-set eyes bright blue. A dusting of dark freckles covers her nose. She wears little or no makeup–her beauty is natural. She studies me back from under thick, natural lashes. Her lips are full, but they’re set in a tight line like she’s pissed.
That’s when I start to teeter off my white steed. I was thinking of myself as the knight in shining armor–here to save the damsel in distress.
But the damsel looks like she wants to throat-punch me.
I stop approaching and let her come to me. I’d planned on a cheek kiss. Maybe a quick embrace if she’s a hugger. Since she looks more like a crotch-kicker, I abort any plans of touching her.
“Lara.”
There’s something familiar about her, even though I have no memories of her from childhood. We were just preschoolers when she moved away.
Her big blue eyes narrow, and she stops in front of me, still keeping that purse of hers held tightly to her side. “Da.” Her tone is cutting. She lifts her chin, spreading her free hand and gesturing down her body. “Here I am–as summoned by your family to be your wife,” she says in Russian. “I hope I’m what you expected.”
I blink, careful to keep my expression blank as my brain scrambles to catch up.
Then I put it together. She was told the lie.
For whatever reason, her father didn’t trust her with the truth. Either he doesn’t think she’s capable of playing pretend, or she was actually in love with Brash.
If it’s the latter, I’m out. She can have him. I don’t need to suffer the disdain of a woman who thinks my family would control her future like she’s chattel.
Except even as I think of throwing her back to him, something in me rebels. Not just my protective side although I still would defend her against any man who tried to hurt her. Not just the most competitive part of me that needs to win any contest against Brash. Beyond that, a possessiveness rises up in me that I’ve never felt before.
As I look at the fiery woman glaring at me, I abandon my previous plan to keep this marriage a sham. She belongs to me. We belong together. I’m not sure why I believe that, but it’s something about the way she seems familiar. But not like I knew her before–more like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet her. I’m turned on by everything about her. Not the least, that she presents a challenge.