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“Yes, sir. Rain check it is.” I frown at my options. “I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”

I give him a curious look. Interesting. Alright then. “Go ahead.”

I know he wasn’t asking my permission, but it’s fun to play. He settles on the most modest garment I own—a three-quarter-length sleeve black, fitted top and a pair of dark-colored flared jeans.

“You want us to match, Matvei?”

He looks at what he’s wearing, then back at what he picked for me. “That wasn’t on purpose, but I think I did it subconsciously. My friend told me that it’s a good idea to match your woman.”

Your woman.

“Maybe your subconscious was agreeing with him. Which friend was that?”

“Vadka.”

I try to remember him. I know he and Rafail are tight. He’s married with a kid. His wife Mariah is separate from the Bratva, and even though some of the Kopolov women are active participants, she wants no part of it.

And now I know that her husband likes to match her. Well, that’s kind of adorable.

Maybe they aren’t all monsters.

Then I remember the stories I’ve heard of Rafail, the very reason why I ran from this type of captivity to begin with. And my heart is all a flutter. Shit, I’m nervous as fuck.

Nah, not just nervous.Terrified.Because Rafail Kopolov isn’t just some name whispered in the dark but a legend. I’ve spent years building my life as a ghost, and this is the very man I ran from. Now I’m walking straight into his den.

I don’t know what to expect from them. What if they all hate me? What if the women all gang up on me? I’d rather face a firing squad than a coven of women who actively hate me. Been there, done that.

With the Irish, they kept me intentionally apart from their women. Not sure why. Maybe they were afraid I’d corrupt them.Ha.

Matvei is close. Too close. His hand presses against the small of my back, and he leans in and wordlessly kisses my shoulder. Heat skates down my skin, and I wrap my hands around his waist. The corner of his Henley lifts, and I find my hand on the bare skin of his back.

There. That’s where he was branded.

“Let me see.”

He turns and quietly lifts his shirt to bare his beautiful, muscled back, and right in the lower center part of his back—the Kopolov family brand.

I can imagine it—the pain and raw red flesh when they gave it to him, the way the skin scabbed over and flaked. I shiver. The way the new, tender layer beneath it shone when light hit it, marking him. This is a man who literally let himself be wounded to show his allegiance.

He brought me back as a trophy, the spoils of war. And I know what he’s said, what he’s planning. Children. A shared bond that will solidify his allegiance to the family. Withme.

A shiver of fear slides through me when I think about what I can give him… and what I can’t.

How will he react?

I brush my thumb lightly over the scar. I don’t want to hurt him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he tells me, reading my mind.

“But it hurt like a motherfucker when you got it.”I flinch at the idea of hot metal searing my flesh.

“Was the second most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.”

I swallow hard. “And the first?”

I’m glad his back’s to me when he answers because his voice is choked, and I don’t want to see the expression he makes. It might break me. “Killing my brother.”

I close my eyes when the memory of the most painful night ofmylife flashes before me.

No.That’s a closely guarded secret no one will ever know. The shame still burns my cheeks, even as I try to push the memory back down.