Page 3 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter three

The Ride

M ila

The armored SUV feels like a coffin on wheels.

I've been in cars before, obviously, but nothing like this.

The windows are tinted so dark I can barely see outside, and when I tap the glass experimentally, it doesn't give at all.

Bulletproof, probably. The seats are butter-soft leather that probably costs more than most people's car, and there's a freaking mini-bar built into the center console.

But all the luxury in the world can't change the fact that I'm trapped in here with a man who might have killed my brother.

Or might not have.

That's the part that's making me crazy. The way Alexei talks about Viktor, the pain I glimpsed in his eyes when he mentioned Roman Volkov—it doesn't match the monster I've been picturing for three years. It doesn't match the man I came here to destroy.

Which means either he's the world's best actor, or I've been wrong about everything.

"So," I say, because the silence is killing me and I need information. "How long have you been in the... family business?"

Alexei doesn't look at me. He's staring out his window at the trees flashing by, but I can see his reflection in the glass. His jaw is tight, and there's something in his expression that looks almost... tired.

"Long enough," he says.

Helpful. I try a different approach.

"The estate we're going to—you live there alone?"

"I do now."

"Now?"

This time he does look at me, and the intensity in those pale green eyes makes my stomach flip. "Now that I have a wife."

The way he says wife makes heat pool low in my belly, which is absolutely not the reaction I should be having.

This man bought me. Bought me, like I'm a piece of furniture or a fancy car.

I should be disgusted, not fighting the urge to lean closer and see what he smells like under that expensive cologne.

Get it together, Mila. You're here for Viktor. Not to get turned on by your brother's maybe-killer.

"Right," I say, trying to sound casual. "And before tonight, you were just... what? Shopping around for a wife at underground auctions?"

His mouth quirks up at one corner, and I realize it's the first time I've seen him almost smile. It transforms his whole face, makes him look less like a cold-blooded killer and more like...

More like the kind of man who could make a woman forget her own name.

Shit.

"You think very little of me," he says, and there's something amused in his voice.

"I think realistically of you."

"And what does that mean?"

I turn in my seat to face him fully, which is a mistake because now I'm close enough to see the silver threading through his dark hair, close enough to notice the scar that runs along his jawline.

Close enough to smell that cologne and realize it's not masking anything—he just smells like cedar and something uniquely masculine that makes my brain go fuzzy.

Focus, Mila.

"It means I know what you are," I say. "What you do. The kind of man who has three million dollars lying around to spend on a woman he's never met."

"I told you. I knew Viktor. That means I knew about you."

"Knowing about me and knowing me are two very different things."

"True." He shifts slightly, and now his knee is almost touching mine. The space between us suddenly feels electric. "So, tell me about yourself, Mrs. Morozov."

Mrs. Morozov. God, that sounds weird. Yesterday I was Mila Kozlov, computer programmer with a revenge fantasy and a growing pile of student debt. Today I'm married to a Russian crime lord who looks like he stepped out of a cologne commercial.

My life is so weird.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

"Everything."

The simple word hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to think about. Everything could mean my favorite color and where I went to college. Or it could mean the way I look when I come, the sounds I make when someone touches me just right.

From the heat in his eyes, I'm pretty sure he means the latter.

"That's a pretty broad question," I manage.

"We have time."

Do we? I want to ask how much time, exactly. How long does he plan to keep me at this estate of his? How long before he gets bored and decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?

How long before I figure out whether he really killed Viktor, and what I'm going to do about it if he did?

Instead, I give him the basics. "I'm twenty-five. I have a degree in computer science from NYU. I work—worked—for a cybersecurity firm in Manhattan."

"Worked?"

"Hard to keep a job when you get sold at an auction."

Another almost-smile. "I'll make sure your employer knows you're... pursuing other opportunities."

"How thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful."

"Can you?"

"When it serves my purposes."

At least he's honest. Sort of.

The SUV takes a turn, and I catch a glimpse of iron gates through the trees. Tall, ornate, and definitely the kind that lock from the inside. My chest starts to feel tight.

"Having second thoughts?" Alexei asks, and I realize he's been watching me.

"Should I be?"

"That depends on why you're really here."

The question catches me off guard. There's something in his voice—not accusation, exactly, but... knowledge. Like he already knows the answer and he's just waiting to see if I'll tell him the truth.

"I'm here because my family owed money and I was the payment," I say carefully.

"Try again."

My heart starts hammering. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mila Kozlov, that women who are forced into situations like this don't usually have three years to plan their revenge."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie.

Alexei reaches across the space between us, and I freeze as his fingers trace along my jawline.

His touch is gentle, almost reverent, but there's steel underneath it.

"Your family's debt could have been paid a dozen different ways," he says softly.

"Money, property, services. But you chose this.

You chose to put yourself on that stage tonight. "

His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I have to fight not to part my lips under the touch. "The question is why."

I should pull away. Should slap his hand away and tell him to keep his distance. Should definitely not be melting under his touch like I'm some kind of teenage girl with her first crush.

But his fingers are warm and calloused, and the way he's looking at me makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the world. Like I'm something precious instead of something he bought.

"Maybe I just wanted to make sure my family was safe," I whisper.

"Maybe." His thumb traces my lip again, and this time I do part them slightly. His eyes darken. "Or maybe you wanted to get close to the man you think killed your brother."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I jerk back, away from his touch, and press myself against the car door.

"I—that's not—"

"It's all right, little wife," he says, and his voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. "I understand the need for revenge. But you should know that the man you're looking for isn't me."

"Then who is it?"

"Roman Volkov. And if you're very, very careful, maybe I'll help you find him."

The SUV starts to slow, and I look out the window to see that we're approaching the gates I glimpsed earlier. They're even more imposing up close—twelve feet of wrought iron topped with decorative spikes that look sharp enough to do real damage.

They swing open as we approach, like someone was watching for us.

Of course, someone was watching. This is Alexei Morozov's home. I'm betting there are cameras, motion sensors, and probably armed guards I can't see. Getting out of here is going to be a lot harder than getting in.

The driveway curves through landscaped gardens that look like something out of a magazine. Even in the dark, I can see perfectly manicured lawns, elaborate flower beds, fountains that probably cost more than most people's houses.

And then the house comes into view.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

It's not a house. It's a freaking castle. Three stories of pale stone and gleaming windows, with towers and turrets and balconies that look like they belong in a fairy tale. Warm light spills from dozens of windows, making the whole place glow like something magical.

"Welcome home," Alexei says quietly.

Home. Right.

My new prison, more like.

The SUV stops in front of a set of double doors that look like they could stop a tank. A man in a dark suit appears immediately to open Alexei's door, then comes around to open mine.

I hesitate for a moment, looking at the hand Alexei extends to help me out. Once I take it, once I step out of this car, there's no going back. I'll be inside his fortress, surrounded by his people, completely at his mercy.

But I came here for a reason. If there's even a chance that he's telling the truth about Viktor, if there's even a possibility that this Roman Volkov is the real killer, then I have to see this through.

I take his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he helps me out of the car. When I stumble slightly on the gravel in my heels, his other hand comes up to steady me, resting on my lower back.

The touch sends heat shooting through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. This is bad. This attraction I feel for him is going to complicate everything.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "We can't have you getting hurt on your first night home."

Home. There's that word again. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

I look up at him, at this man who might be my enemy or my salvation, and try to figure out what the hell I've gotten myself into.

His pale green eyes are unreadable in the darkness, but there's something there that makes my breath catch. Something that looks almost like...hunger.

"Come," he says, his hand still on my back, guiding me toward those imposing double doors. "Let me show you what three million dollars bought."

The doors swing open before we reach them, revealing a foyer that looks like something out of a museum. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, a staircase that curves up to the second floor like something from Gone with the Wind.

And standing in the middle of it all is a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Russian folk tale. She's probably in her fifties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a perfect bun and kind eyes that take me in from head to toe.

"Irina," Alexei says. "This is my wife, Mila."

Wife. He says it so naturally, like we actually chose each other instead of meeting at an underground auction three hours ago.

Irina steps forward and gives me a small curtsy. "Welcome, Mrs. Morozov. I've prepared the blue suite for you."

The blue suite. Not our suite. Interesting.

"Thank you," I manage.

"Are you hungry? I could prepare something light..."

I realize I haven't eaten since this morning. My stomach has been too twisted with nerves to think about food. But now that she mentions it, I'm starving.

"That would be wonderful," I say.

Irina nods and disappears through a doorway, leaving me alone with Alexei in this massive foyer that probably costs more than my parents' entire house.

"She seems nice," I say.

"She is. She's also been with my family for thirty years, which means her loyalty is absolute."

Message received. Don't try to turn the staff against him.

"Good to know."

Alexei starts walking toward the staircase, and I follow because I don't really have a choice. But as we climb the marble steps, I can't help but notice the way his shoulders fill out his suit jacket, the confident way he moves through his domain.

He's beautiful, in a dangerous, predatory way that makes my pulse race.

Which is exactly the problem.

At the top of the stairs, he turns down a hallway lined with oil paintings that look like they belong in a museum. The carpet under our feet is so thick it's like walking on clouds.

"The blue suite," he says, stopping in front of a door that looks like it leads to yet another wing of the house. "Your rooms."

Your rooms. Not our rooms.

"Where are your rooms?" I ask.

His smile is slow and predatory. "Close enough to hear you if you need anything. Far enough away that you won't feel... crowded."

Translation: close enough to stop me if I try to escape, far enough away that I can't smother him in his sleep.

"How thoughtful," I say dryly.

"I told you. I can be thoughtful."

He opens the door and gestures for me to go first. The rooms beyond are... incredible. A sitting area with a fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows. A bedroom with a bed that could sleep six people. A bathroom that's bigger than my old apartment.

It's beautiful. It's luxurious. It's also a cage.

"There are clothes in the closet," Alexei says. "I had them brought in while we were... completing our business."

Of course he did. Because normal people always have a complete wardrobe waiting for their auction bride.

"Thank you," I say, because what else can I say?

"Dinner will be ready in an hour. I'll send Irina to get you."

He moves toward the door, then stops and turns back to me.

"Mila?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't try to leave tonight. The grounds are heavily guarded, and I'd hate for there to be any... misunderstandings."

The words are polite, but the threat underneath them is crystal clear.

"Understood."

"Good girl."

And then he's gone, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds suspiciously like a lock engaging.

I'm alone in my gilded cage, wondering what the hell happens next.