Page 13 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #14)

“Do you really want to spend the last few moments on this beautiful beach arguing, Arina?” he asks, his voice so hoarse it does something to my stomach. “How about… we take a walk along the beach while we wait for the check? Enjoy the sand and the water?”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes me pause and reconsider. There’s always time for answers, but what he proposes sounds like a beautiful idea.

I finally relent with a smile, and he walks over, helps me out of my chair.

“If I were you,” he suggests, his eyes trailing down my body in a way that makes me shiver. “I’d take those heels off.”

I blush and do as he says, carrying them in one hand while linking my other arm in his. Together, we walk to the shore.

We stand there in silence for a while, enjoying the waves. Occasionally, I steal a look at him, see the serenity in his face as he gazes up at the stars, at the foam on the waves. He looks so at peace, so gentle, so soft.

“Thank you for this,” I murmur softly. “It’s beautiful out here.”

He looks at me like I’ve made him the happiest man possible, and I feel my heart flutter. “You deserve beautiful things, Arina,” he says, and my stomach does a somersault.

“Why?” I ask, with a hoarse voice. “I’m no one to you.”

“It’s like you said, I dragged you into this mess,” the guilt washes over his face.

He says it so simply, with such quiet honesty that for a while, I don’t know what to say. What is there to say to a man who changed your life on an impulsive decision? Who now acknowledges what he did?

His hand grazes the back of my hand with his, and I swear time stops still.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him. “The private dinner. Taking me out to town. After I ran, you could have locked me away.”

What I’m asking is why? Why isn’t he angry?

He looks out at the water again, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want to break you any further. I know the toll this has taken on you.”

His words, his voice, make my chest tight. It’s not out of pity for him. But rather, how complicated this whole thing is. When he kidnapped me, I was so intent on hating him, but day by day, it’s getting harder to do that.

In this moment, with the soft ocean breeze kissing our cheeks, it’s almost easy to forget that this isn’t just any other date. He isn’t just any other man.

I force myself to break eye contact as a well of emotions overpowers me, the memories rushing back. He kidnapped me, forced me to marry him. I was chased by dangerous men, and he won’t tell me who they were. He’s afraid of allowing me out of his sight, claiming it’s for my protection. Why?

He hates my brothers. They owe him. What, exactly?

Suddenly, like a poison, these thoughts begin to dampen my mood, my spirit. “We should head back,” I say, and try to smile, but it feels forced. He frowns, as though he sees me struggling, but doesn’t say a word.

He simply nods and leads me back to the table to get the check, so we can head back to our suite.

***

We walk back to our room in silence. I don’t bother questioning him on the way because at every turn, we come across people wandering about, and the suite seems to be a safer space.

But the moment we enter the suite and I see Ilariy shake off his jacket and head into his room, I realize what he’s doing.

He knows I have questions, and he’s deflecting from the conversation. I can already predict how he’ll claim to be tired.

Not today, Arina, he’ll say. Tomorrow.

He said that yesterday.

For the briefest moment, fear grips me. What the hell am I doing here? I should run for my life. I should call my brothers. He’s powerful and rich, and whatever he’s up to, he doesn’t want me to know.

Tonight wasn’t a date. He might be my lawful husband, but there is nothing lawful about the way he went about it.

He kidnapped me, and I need to escape.

I glance toward the door. He has my phone, but I could use the hotel phone to call for help once I make it to the lobby. Or if there’s a chance I might get caught in the lobby, it might be safer for me to try to slip out of the premises and find the American embassy. Once I explain my situation...

“Don’t even think about it,” Ilariy says suddenly, appearing at the doorway to his room.

I jerk my gaze back to him and look surprised.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“You’re planning to run again. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

“Seriously?” he asks in a way that screams you’ve got candy in your hand and claim you didn’t take it. “You’re still standing by the door.”

“My feet hurt,” I protest, refusing to be caught in the act he’s accusing me of doing.

“Then take off your heels,” he snorts and goes back into his bedroom.

“Fine!” I yell behind him, angry that he could read my thoughts so well, infuriated by how amused he looked when he declared my intentions.

I kick off my heels and storm into his room, eager to wipe that smug, know-it-all expression off his face.

If he’s accusing me of things, well, I have questions too.

I slam the door to his bedroom shut behind me. He’s lying flat on his bed, going through his phone, but when he hears me, he rises on his elbows and gives me another amused look.

I make my way to his bed and take the other side, my feet truly hurting now. I fall flat on my back and turn to face him.

“Tell me who those men were,” I ask.

He groans, as if to say, “This again?”

“Tell me!” I ask again, more forcefully now. “Or I’ll run. I swear!”

Ilariy sighs heavily, then shuffles for something in his bedside drawer and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “I didn’t want to do this,” he says. “But you leave me no choice.”

“What the hell?” I scream, trying to scramble off his bed, but before I can react, he grabs my wrist and snaps one cuff around it. I shriek and try to pull away, but he’s too strong and manages to cuff my hand to the bedpost, keeping me in place.

“You’re insane, you know that?” I scream, writhing to get free, but the iron digs into my wrist.

“You shouldn’t have threatened to run,” he says simply, then falls back flat on the bed.

“I hate you,” I spit.

“No, you don’t.” He says it so calmly that I want to scream.

“Don’t tell me what I feel!”

“Then stop lying to yourself.” He stands and begins unbuttoning his shirt. “You were going to run. Weren’t you? You said so yourself. I’m making sure you don’t get yourself in trouble like you did yesterday. I won’t always be around to save your ass, you know?”

“I was only in trouble because of you!” I shriek.

“True, but I can’t change that. I can, however, keep you safe,” he shrugs and throws his shirt on a chair.

I know I shouldn’t, but even now, in the midst of my rage, while being handcuffed to his bed, I can’t help but let my eyes wander across the planes of his chest, across all those hardened muscles that glint under the soft hotel lighting.

“Like what you see?” His devilishly proud voice brings me back to attention.

“Screw you!” I hiss.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he chuckles, and continues to undress.

“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly alarmed at the sight of his trousers falling to the ground.

“Getting ready for bed,” he says, now in his boxers. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep to my side.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re going to handcuff me to the bed and then sleep beside me?”

“Would you prefer I leave you handcuffed in bed alone? What if a fire breaks out or something?” He raises an eyebrow and notices the doubt in my eyes. “I didn’t think so.”

I tug at the handcuffs again, but they’re solid. Damn him.

“This is insane,” I mutter.

“You keep saying that,” he says. The next thing I know, he gets into bed, slides into the covers beside me, and turns off the light, leaving just one night lamp on.

The room is suddenly dark, intimate, and he reaches over, putting a decorative throw over me.

“You get the blanket and I get the throw?” I say, annoyed.

He turns to me, his brown eyes darker now, his features soft. “Behave, and I’ll give you a blanket next time.”

“Who are you?” I ask, turning to my side, one hand still clinging to the bedpost.

He sighs, as if I’ve dared to pierce his heart. “Does it matter who I am?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I can’t tell until you tell me who you are.”

There’s a moment of silence—time that he spends thinking—and then when he speaks, I find my anger simmering down.

“I’m a man who makes mistakes, Arina. I love my family, you know that? I have six brothers and two sisters.”

“Eight siblings?” I squeak, suddenly interested.

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbles, his eyes growing tired. “There’s Agafon, our eldest. He’s got these stormy grey eyes, and as a kid, when he got mad…” he begins to tell me about his siblings, and I listen, hold on to every word.

“I’ll do anything for them, you know?” he tells me after. “To protect them, I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but in my eyes, those things were never without reason. Do you hate me for that?”

The way he asks makes me want to choose my words carefully. For some reason, from all his deflecting and admissions, I think what I feel about him matters.

Softly, I whisper. “How can I hate a man for being so honorable in defense of his family?”

His eyes blast open now and connect with mine from where he lies beside me. Time stretches, warps, and I realize how close he is. A few more inches, and I could have him right next to me, hear the roaring in his heart.

“I know.” He clears his throat painfully. “You want answers. But I’ve told you all I could. Beyond this, there’s nothing more. The details aren’t necessary, are they?”

“What I know,” I recap, “Is that you own hotels and casinos and you’ve got people who don’t want you doing business here. Is there anything else I should know, Ilariy? About who you are, what you do? I’m fine not having details, but I don’t want any lies between us.”

“I…” he sighs. “No. There’s nothing more to say, Arina.”

I want to believe this is who he is. A man who cares about his family. Who makes mistakes but isn’t cruel. Who talks about his siblings like they’re sacred.

He looks so tired, like he’s fighting demons in his mind, like he’s thinking of the times his family’s been hurt, and for some reason, I don’t want to itch that wound.

Despite everything, I find myself whispering. “Goodnight, Ilariy.”

“Goodnight, Arina.”

He turns off the night lamp, and the room plunges into complete darkness. I lie awake for a while, still handcuffed, but his breathing is slow, like he’s already asleep.

I should hate him for the position he’s put me in, but for some reason, I find his presence comforting.

Slowly, my eyes close shut, and I find myself drifting.

I think I dream it when his body brushes over mine, when he carefully releases me and lays my hand by my side to gently massage the skin the handcuff dug into.