Page 32 of Dance of Defiance

A heated shudder ripples through me, sparking a tingle in the lobe of my ear where his teeth sank into me.

I hate how fucking weak I was. That I didn’t fight him.

But I know even that is a shitty attempt at trying to paint myself as a victim of an unwanted situation. It wasn’t that I “didn’t fight back” or “let it happen”.

Cold, hard truth: I need that to be the case because it absolves me.

…Of wanting it. Of feeling my blood turn to liquid fire when he touched me and held me down, taking away all my carefully laid out and painstakingly arranged power. Of needing—fuckingneeding—more when he ground his hot, hard thickness against mine…

“Thereyou are.”

I blink, faltering as the feminine voice pulls me back to reality. I clear my throat, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat.

Dasha Lukashova, AKA my fiancée, smiles at me, her brows cocked in amusement.

“There’s my lovely husband-to-be,” she beams as she presses against my chest, looks up at me with stars in her eyes, and stretches up as if to kiss my cheek.

Instead, she hisses in my ear.

“For fuck’s sake, Roman, get it together. You look like you’re at an execution—your own, at that. Fix yourself. Now.”

She pulls back, and she’s all pleasant smiles and doting looks again.

Fuck, she’s good at this. Really, really fucking good at it. But it’s also not her first arranged marriage engagement party.

It’s herfourth.

Before me, it was Vaughn Bancroft, which is cartoonishly, disturbingly ironic given that it’s his fuckingbrotherI can’t shake from my goddamn subconscious. Before Vaughn, it was another Bratva heir from a St. Petersburg family I don’t know, and beforethat, it was some Italian mafia kid.

Honestly, I feel bad for her. She’s obviously a pawn in her father's political games. Worse, she’s painfully aware of it.

The real problem is, Dasha Lukashova isn’t the ditzy, shopping-spree Bratva bimbo you might assume. It would be a lot easier for her if shewere. But she’s the opposite—intelligent, calculating, and politically savvy.

She might not be happy about marrying yours truly, but she understands how mafia politics work and knows how to play her part to a T—much better than I do, to be honest.

It would be so much simpler if I could force myself towantto marry her. I mean, the woman is gorgeous, with stunning Eastern European looks, long, runway-model legs, big blue eyes, and plush, feminine lips.

And legitstacked. But, I really haven’t ever been a boob guy.

Dasha smiles a perfectly white, dazzling smile as one of the hired photographers homes in on us to get a few shots of her in her shimmering silver Dolce gown as she presses against my side and laces her fingers through mine.

The cameraman nods his thanks and keeps moving through the party. Dasha turns back to me and leans in for another “kiss”—by which I mean, mutters in my ear.

“Roman, whatever is putting that pissy look on your face, you need to get rid of it. Our fathers are walking over. Find your balls, give them a little tug, and match my efforts.”

I do feel bad for her. She’s actually—well, I won’t say “nice”. She’s mostly been frosty to me. But I attribute that to the fact that she’s being forced to marry me and bear my children, like it or not.

In another situation, though, I think I’d really enjoy getting drunk with her.

I bring my glass to my lips as our fathers approach. Dasha calmly reaches up and pulls my hand back down. “And slow the fuck down,” she mutters through a stunning smile. “Papa!”

Bogdan Lukashov smiles broadly at his daughter as he scoops her into a big hug. My father nods his chin at me, then turns to level an obvious look at Dasha’s cleavage.

“Look at us, Pavel,” Bogdan chuckles, flashing a vodka-fueled grin at my father. “From the young ruffians we were back in Moscow to this: two old men watching their children marry.”

My father claps Bogdan heavily on the back. “We’ll be grandfathers in no time, my old friend.” He turns to shake his vodka glass at Dasha and me. “Just as soon as these two consummate this thing and have some babies!”

I swear I canfeelthe sourness radiating off Dasha as I bite back a grimace and a scowl ripples behind my face.