Page 4 of Prince of Control (Bratva Heirs #1)

“I don’t know why now, only that he has his reasons. I’ve made arrangements for you to transfer to Thornecroft where Benjamin attends school, so you can finish your degree. It’s one of the most prestigious colleges in the world.”

My nose burns. Angry tears flood my eyes. This is insane!

“And if I refuse?” My voice trembles even though I try to keep the words even.

My dad’s expression turns even more grim. “Then none of us are safe.”

How can that be? My father, one of the most powerful men in Russia, can’t keep his wife and daughter safe from the bratva on another continent?

This is worse than my parents divorcing. This is my entire world crumbling to my feet.

No wonder my mom is mad at him.

A tear slides down my face, and I see a flicker of distress on my dad’s face.

He reaches for me, but I pull away.

“I’m sorry, but marrying Benjamin Baranov is the only way to keep you safe.”

Safe from what?

I have no idea what the Baranovs or the Chicago Bratva want with me. I still can’t believe my father sent me here– alone. I could be walking into a trap. Maybe they intend to hold me hostage to make Papa do what they say.

Maybe it is for marriage, and I’ll be a hostage for the rest of my life. After all, marriage is one of the oldest methods of ensuring an alliance with other kingdoms.

I steal a glance at the bratva prince walking beside me. Will he expect me to share a bed? Consummate this marriage? Bear his heirs?

My stomach, which has been in a tight knot since I found my father in my flat, feels queasy.

Benjamin takes my luggage from the attendants, easily handing the heavy bulk into the trunk of his vehicle. I catch sight of tattoos marking the backs of his hands and wrists. So he’s part of it all. I wondered, because he’s in college, if he was already a member of the brotherhood.

Of course, he is.

I wish I’d learned the meanings of the tattoos. Has my groom killed before? Tortured?

My mouth goes dry. Raped?

Will he force himself on me?

My palms emit cold sweat. These people are so dangerous that they struck fear into my father –and he’s a monster in his own right.

He wouldn’t have uprooted me from college in Paris unless he absolutely had no other choice.

My mom wouldn’t have let him. The decision had to be completely out of his control.

Benjamin escorts me to the passenger side of the SUV and opens the door.

Oh good. It’s nice to know that the killer I was promised to has nice manners.

He waits until I get in, like a chauffeur. I refuse to look at him until I realize he’s leaned his forearm against the top of the car and is peering down at me.

“Is there a gun in your purse, Lara?” His voice has a teasing quality.

My knuckles whiten on the purse, and my gaze snaps up to where he looms over me. I see amusement in his brown eyes, and the slight curve of his lips.

Cold washes through me. He’s so confident, he’s not afraid of a loaded gun.

No answer comes to mind. My jaw clenches as I glare up at him.

“You planning on shooting me?” Again, he’s completely relaxed. Seemingly amused by me.

Oh, look at my cute bride who showed up with a gun to kill me.

I try and fail to swallow. My face burns. My legs tremble, ready to run like a gazelle away from the lion chasing me.

He holds his palm out. “Give me the gun, printsessa . We’re not going to hurt each other in that way.”

In what way are we going to hurt each other, Benjamin?

That thought has me imagining a measured hurt. The pain-for-pleasure type.

Wait, no.

I am not imagining Benjamin Baranov tying me up and whipping me with a riding crop.

That’s…nuts. I’m not interested in that.

I eye his tattooed knuckles, wondering what it would be like to have them closed around my throat while we have sex.

Will he force me?

Why am I picturing him forcing me?

I don’t want that. Of course, I don’t.

I don’t move, so he makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers. “The gun, Lara.” The teasing quality drops away from his voice. I hear cold authority.

I sit there and debate what would happen if I said no. Or if I pulled it out and pointed it at him.

I realize that despite his relaxed pose, his gaze is intense. Focused. If I pointed the gun at him, I’d have to be willing to pull the trigger.

As if he reads my thoughts, he shakes his head. “You’re not a killer, printsessa . And you’re safe with me. Or you will be if you behave.”

Something about his gentle coaxing breaks me. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I don’t want him to see them, so I thrust the whole purse his way and look away as he opens it and removes the pistol, tucking it into his waistband like a pro.

When he slides into the seat beside me, I ask, “Are you a killer, Benjamin?”

He turns to study me. I hold my breath under the intensity of his gaze.

“I’ve killed.”

I can’t breathe.

He starts the SUV and puts it in drive. “And I’d kill again–for you.”

The breath leaves me in a whoosh. I’m suddenly lightheaded. Shocked and slightly turned on.

“Why?” I demand.

A slight tension radiates from his shoulders. When he answers, the words are flat and emotionless. “You’re my wife.”