Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I set my glass down with deliberate calm and fold my hands on the desk. “You’re offering me your daughter,” I repeat flatly, looking at Viktor.
Viktor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “She’s not a child,” Oleg answers for him, still trying to sound persuasive. “She’s twenty-two, beautiful, intelligent, loyal. Viktor has groomed her to understand this world and her place in it. She’ll make a fine wife.”
A pulse ticks in my jaw. He’s rattling off her attributes as though she’s a show dog, a product. To him she’s a bargaining chip, and I can’t help wondering whether she’s had any say in this arrangement.
What unsettles me even more is Viktor himself, sitting there composed, silent, completely at ease. Oleg used the word grooming. Viktor has raised his daughter to be some man’s possession, all to strengthen the Grinkov Bratva. That kind of blind devotion isn’t ordinary loyalty, it borders on psychosis.
“You’re serious,” I finally say, still half waiting for the punchline.
Oleg’s smile is patient. “I am.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “Your solution to end years of bloodshed is marriage to a girl half my age.”
Oleg shrugs. “Sometimes the old ways are the most effective.”
“And what does Katya think about this?” I can’t help but ask.
Viktor answers without hesitation. “She understands her duty.”
Duty. That word again, a leash men like him fasten to a woman’s neck and call it honor. I want to say no. I want them out of this room before the conversation goes any further. But then the door opens, and the woman herself walks in. Every doubt I have about this arrangement crumbles to dust at my feet. Katya Belova is certainly a beauty.
Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves, and emerald eyes glint beneath long, curled lashes. A deep burgundy silk dress clings to all the right places. But it isn’t only her stark beauty that pulls me in. There’s defiance in the way she moves, the lift of her chin, the subtle tension in her jaw. She’s furious, and she’s stunning. I’m suddenly, utterly intrigued.
For a moment, no one speaks. She doesn’t look at me, not yet. Her attention locks on her father, gaze hard and unyielding. Then her eyes glide to Oleg, and finally to me. When they do, the entire world goes quiet.
Every part of her screams, I do not want this. I will not make this easy. I am not your prize. And every part of me responds to that fire with something primal and dangerous.
This could be a setup or a honey trap. Knowing Oleg, it’s probably a ploy to earn my trust only to sink a knife between my ribs later. But my first instinct when I look at her isn’t suspicion, it’s possession and protection. I want her. I want to claim her and make her mine, to take her away from that monster of a father. And that’s a problem.
I don’t let desire drive my decisions. I never did as a young man, and I certainly haven’t in the seven years I’ve ruled the Kozlov Bratva. Still, a small voice whispers that this could be a smart move. She clearly hates her father for forcing her into this, and I could use that against him. At least that’s the excuse I cling to, pretending it’s more than lust urging me to say yes.
Katya takes three deliberate steps into the room. Her heels click against the floor in a steady rhythm of defiance. She doesn’t sit, curtsy, or offer a greeting. Instead, she looks straight at me, green eyes blazing, and says, “I’m going to make your life hell.”
Her words hit like gunfire, and I do something I haven’t done in a very long time.
I laugh. Not because I doubt her, but because I believe every word. She has fire in her, and I relish it. I turn my gaze to Oleg and Viktor.
“You have yourself a deal.”
3
KATYA
The door clicks shut behind my father and Oleg, the finality slamming down like a prison gate. The sharp echo reverberates in my ears, and the walls seem to squeeze inward. This is the moment I’m no longer just a girl with a bright future. Now I’m merely Isaac Kozlov’s future wife.
I grit my teeth until my jaw throbs and remain glued to the oversized leather chair across from Isaac’s desk, staring at the dark wood grain as though it might split open and swallow me whole.
He stays silent, offering no ‘Are you okay?’ or hollow promise that everything will be fine. Of course he doesn’t. From what I’ve heard, Isaac Kozlov doesn’t do gentle. This is business and nothing else.
He strolls around the desk and props himself against the edge in front of me, arms folded, ankles casually crossed. He doesn’t exactly loom, yet he still manages to occupy every inch of the room.