Page 43 of Arranged Control

I’ve always had control. Or at least I’ve been good at lying to myself over the years. Now Seamus is muscling his way into my world with his chaotic good looks and his confidence. It drives me crazy.

It makes me want to kiss him until his lips are bloody.

Which is something I bet we’d both enjoy.

Chapter 14

Alina

Anoise pulls me from sleep.

I stare at the ceiling, heart beating fast. I’m not even sure why I’m awake right now. Seamus stirs next to me, but I can tell by his breathing that he’s still out. I roll onto my side, letting myself drift apart when I hear it again.

Something downstairs.

Instantly, I’m fully up and alert. I stare at the door, adrenaline slamming into my veins. But the more I sit in silence and listen, the more I’m not sure whether I actually heard something or not. Could it have been a dream? That’s happened to me before.

I know Seamus would want me to wake him up. But I also know he’d use my worry against me. I can almost picture him smirking at me and casually saying how if I’m so afraid of every little noise at night, we should move to his place since it’s so much safer.

Screw that.

I don’t even hate his house. I’m happy to split time with him. I don’t want to be difficult and unfair. It’s more that this marriageis happening a lot faster than I anticipated and it’s leaving me feeling extremely unsettled.

Random murders do that to a girl.

Quietly, I slip out of bed. I walk lightly to the door and pause, listening to see if Seamus is going to wake up. He doesn’t react when I move out into the hallway.

The stairs are quiet. Downstairs is dead. All the lights are off. The fancy smart smoke detectors glow as I pass, giving me a little visibility. The kitchen is wreathed in darkness and the city outside my windows glitters. It’s a little past two in the morning, and New York is slowing down for the night.

I’m being stupid. Seamus’s worries are making me paranoid. I understand all too well how dangerous our family businesses can be, but that usually doesn’t extend to people like me.

I’m outside the lifestyle. I don’t have anything to do with Morozov activities. Most men living that life understand there are certain lines they shouldn’t cross if they want to protect the people they care about.

Wives and daughters are usually off-limits.

But since I was used in an arranged marriage to create a more solid mafia alliance, does that mean I’m a valid target now?

The living room feels cold. I hug myself, not sure when it got so chilly. A breeze kicks up the edge of my pajamas. I’m about to head back when I notice one of the windows is open. They don’t push out all the way, just enough to let in some air.

I don’t remember touching them. Seamus must’ve cracked it earlier and forgot to pull it shut.

I walk over to close it when something catches my eye.

It’s a piece of paper. Thick cardstock, folded in half to form a tent.

My name’s written on one side.

It’s propped up on the sill beside the open window.

And I know for a fact that it wasn’t there earlier.

Another chill runs down my spine. This time, it’s not from the breeze. I look around in a panic, but nothing’s moving. There’s nobody else in here. I’m all alone.

I feel like someone’s watching as I pick up the note and look inside.

Do You Want To Leave Him?

I stare at the bizarre message. It’s written in blocky letters. I don’t recognize the handwriting. It’s not signed by anyone.