Page 115 of His Forced Bride

I turn, strutting to the door as voices rise in heated discussion, but I don't look back.

They can scheme and plot among themselves.

When they move against me—and they will move—I'll be ready.

If they want to challenge me, they will learn what it means to cross me, because the lead in my bullets doesn't differentiate between family or enemy when I pull the trigger.

The drive back to St. Petersburg takes four hours through gray countryside, giving me time to consider my options.

Dimitri won't act immediately.

He's cautious by nature, preferring to build consensus before striking.

But the others might prove more impulsive, especially if they believe my attachment to Inessa makes me vulnerable.

They're not entirely wrong.

The woman has gotten under my skin in ways I didn't anticipate.

What began as a pragmatic arrangement has evolved into something more dangerous.

The family senses this weakness and wants to exploit it.

But they underestimate what I'm willing to do to keep what's mine.

When the car finally arrives back at my home, Oleg meets me at the gate, and his usual stoic expression has been replaced by barely concealed anxiety.

Something is wrong.

"Boss, we have a situation."

He coughs to disguise the way his voice cracks.

"Explain."

"Mrs. Gravitch returned from her hospital visit with a… guest. She insisted… and since she's your wife, Kirill let them through before checking with security."

Kirill, who looked guilty as hell when questioned about how his phone went missing yesterday.

My jaw clenches as the pieces fall into place.

I'm not happy with Inessa, and we'll have words, but for now, I have to find out what the hell is going on.

"Where are they now?"

"The living room, sir."

I stride through the front entrance with rage building in each step.

The sound of feminine voices drifts from the main room—Inessa's tone and another voice that's sickly sweet and manipulative.

When I reach the doorway, the scene before me confirms my worst fears.

Viktoria Mirova sits in my leather chair as though she belongs there, holding a crystal tumbler of vodka in her manicured hand.

Inessa perches on the edge of the sofa, spine rigid with tension.

She looks caught between loyalty and longing, torn between the mother who abandoned her and the man who married her by force.