Page 22 of Forced to Marry the Russian Bratva

I approach slowly, half expecting him to change his mind. When I reach the doorway, he steps aside to give me space.

I glare at him suspiciously, then look out at the hallway beyond. “Are you serious?”

“It’s just lunch, Gela Jones,” he whispers, standing dangerously close. So close, in fact, that my hands go clammy at how his voice echoes in my head. “Though if you hate the idea so much, I can have your meal sent up.”

If I say no, I stay locked in here. But if I say yes, I might just learn something about him and this house, maybe even a way to get out.

“No,” I say quickly. “I…I’ll join you for lunch.”

“Great.” He breaks into a smile and brushes past me, his body firm against mine. My heart flips in my chest, and I find myself suck in a gasp of air. If he notices, he doesn’t say. He simply looks over his shoulder and tilts his head. “You coming or what?”

***

We reach the dining table, and I try not to gawk. The ceiling is like forty feet high, and a massive crystal chandelier the size of a small studio apartment hangs from the center of it. Valentin leads me to the table and pulls out a chair for me.

“Sit, please.”

I sit, and he slides the chair in behind me. When he does, I catch a whiff of his shampoo, see his shadow over my table setting, and once again, my heart does a dangerous little flip.

What is wrong with me? Why the hell does this insane proximity with my crazy kidnapper get my heart racing so? It must be fear, I tell myself.

But even as I do, a small voice in my brain whispers,'Liar.’

He gives me a knowing smile as he takes the seat opposite me, like he can sense my pulse is off. A few moments later, a butler begins bringing in dishes.

“Could your staff really hear me screaming?” I ask flatly when the butler leaves.

“Oh, on many mornings.” Valentin looks like the memory itself grates on his nerves.Good.

“And none of them care that you have a prisoner in your house?” I squeak, wondering why they’re so afraid of him. Anyone else would have called the cops, right?

“You aren’t a prisoner,” Valentin sighs as he reaches over to grab a slice of bread. “You’re my wife.”

“You had me locked up in a room.”

“You tried to run,” he shrugs.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, annoyance tinging every word as I reach to grab some fish. “You’re going to keep me locked up in the room forever?”

The dish lies too far, and when Valentin moves to pass it to me, our fingers brush. Once again, so fucking electric that I almost drop the knife and fork.

But somehow, I manage to slide a piece onto my plate without dropping anything. Small mercies.

“Well.” Valentin chews slowly, thinking. “Keeping you locked in the room isn’t sustainable.”

“You think so?” I ask, flatly.

“So, I’m willing to give you more freedom within the house, as long as you give me your word you won't try to escape again.”

I laugh incredulously. “You're serious.”

“Very.”

“And if I can’t give you my word?”

“Then it's back to the locked room.”

I pick up my fork and stab at a scallop. “So my choices are a bigger prison or a smaller one.”