Page 38 of His Forced Bride

Business as usual, except for the wedding scheduled in three hours.

Dimitri walks into my study and drops into the chair across from my desk.

My brother looks every bit the businessman in his tailored suit, but I know better.

The thick eyebrows, the calculating stare—he's not here with congratulations.

He has an agenda I know will make me furious, but I can't just throw him out.

"You look tired," he says, settling back in the leather chair and unbuttoning his suit coat.

He looks so much like my father, I'd fear the old bastard had been reincarnated if I didn't know better.

"I've been working."

Ignoring his penetrating stare, I stack the papers into one pile and straighten them, just to give myself something to do so I don't let my temper out of its locked cage yet.

"On your wedding day?"

He glances at the stack of papers, then back at me. "How romantic."

I don't respond.

Dimitri didn't take the early train from St. Petersburg to discuss my sleep schedule or my work habits.

He's here because the old families are asking questions, because power shifts make everyone nervous, because marrying Inessa looks like a desperate attempt to survive.

That may be true in some ways, but if I survive this with my empire intact, I won't care what they say.

"The Kozlov situation is contained," I tell him before he can ask.

"Is it?" He leans forward.

"Because from St. Petersburg, this looks chaotic. Your son dies in a botched arms deal, and now you're marrying his fiancée to salvage the alliance. The families are wondering if you've lost your edge."

There it is.

The real reason for his visit.

"The marriage serves the organization's interests," I say.

"Her company provides legitimate revenue streams. Fashion moves money across borders efficiently. And Dominic's death had nothing to do with the arms deal. They are trying to stop the very alliance this marriage would secure."

Dimitri's eyebrow ticks up as if this is news to him, but he's not that thick.

He's playacting while the truth is being buried just to make me look bad.

"And the girl herself?"

My jaw tightens.

Last night floods back—Inessa at my dinner table, her pulse racing under my palm, the way her lips parted when I traced her mouth.

The memory burns through me, searing my better judgment.

She's the same age my son was.

It's inappropriate, but God, do I find myself wanting her.