Page 3 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

“ T hat’s going to look so good on Instagram.”

I’m momentarily blinded when a flash goes off.

Whatever picture they think they’re getting will most certainly not look good on social media.

But a second later my shoulders relax when I realize the teen with the cell phone is snapping photos of some intricate dessert displayed against a wall full of blooming flowers.

Say what you want about the Russian mafia, but they do not skimp on the details.

The wedding—my wedding—is fit for royalty. Like, the Windsor’s have nothing on them.

After the priest announced us husband and wife, Maxim, still looking nothing but bored, grabbed my hand and pulled me down the aisle. There’d been flashing lights then too, some people marveling. I was too scared to look at anyone, terrified Lev Zimin wouldn’t appear so nice anymore.

Maxim threw me into a fancy-looking car, the driver peeling away immediately.

“Who are you?” my husband asked, pulling out his phone from his jacket pocket at the same time. He didn’t look up once.

What would happen to me now? What would happen to all my stuff? What would happen to my overpriced, crappy, roach-infested apartment?

Stuck in thought, I choked, unable to answer his question. He lifted one dark brow, while still on his phone. Unimpressed. My husband is most definitely unimpressed with me, not that I blame him.

“Your dress is beautiful,” the teen says.

I’m standing by the dessert table because I have no idea what else to do. It’s a Friday wedding, and the night is already dark. Music pumps through the room and waiters pass out an abundance of alcohol.

I haven’t seen my husband since I got here.

“Can we take a picture?” another of the teen asks.

Are they Russian royalty? Heirs to the mafia? One of them is using a Chanel clutch so they’ve got to be somebody.

“Sure.” I do my best to smile, but even in my twenty-thousand-dollar dress, I’m nothing but a used tissue. Why do these rich teenagers make me feel like I’m back in high school?

“So cute,” one of them coos, instantly tapping away at the device.

Then their eyes slid mischievously toward another friend.

They giggle as they walk away and I have an inkling why.

They didn’t post that photo to show off my dress or because this is the wedding of the season.

They now have proof on their Instagram that the Zimin’s got played.

Great.

A woman keeps staring at me, her long polished nails tapping against her clutch. When I see my husband’s twin approach her, I recognize her as the woman sitting next to Lev in the church. She’s my mother-in-law.

The decadent cake behind me, complete with six layers of beautiful swirls of icing, begs to be eaten. I’d inhale the whole thing, a much-needed stress relief, if I could. Wouldn’t that make for a great Instagram story?

But before I can do that someone is beside me—my husband.

He towers over me. He’s handsome as hell. And he’s seriously bored.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks.

I’m choking in this skintight dress, the material heavy and the slit so high I’m afraid of making any sudden movements for fear of flashing people. My skull aches from the amount of bobby pins crammed into whatever creation Marissa styled and my lashes are heavy with mascara.

Yes, I want to get out of here.

But with him?

He’s lost his jacket somewhere and he holds out a hand, the other casually in his pocket. He’s uninterested in the circus around us, and doesn’t note the photographer who WILL. NOT. STOP. taking our photo.

This isn’t even a cute moment. It’s two people finding themselves in a shit show.

He offers his hand.

In the dim light, it’s difficult to see his dark eyes. I feel them, though. Hard and bitter. He’s offering me a way out, but it’s not an easy one.

Pinning me down like he knows there’s only one option, he offers the slightest crook of his lips. Instinctively, I know this smirk is one of the few facial expressions I’ll ever get out of him.

I place my hand in his, my chest no longer constricting just from the tight dress.

He pulls me like earlier, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket. It’s rough compared to the way he smoothly strides through the room, not noticing a single other person.

I wish I was like him. Instead, every wide grin or waggle of the brows hits me. An old Russian guy lifts his glass in a mock cheer knowing this is our wedding night.

If the photographer is around he’ll get a great shot of my disgusted face.

You signed up for this.

The pit in my stomach is a combination of several things. Being dragged along by this mafia prince. And that same terror that’s been inside of me since Daisy admitted she’d fucked up. That she needed my help to pay back her debt to Marissa.

And shit, Marissa certainly came up with a form of payment.

The fancy car is back, idling at the curb, a good thing since I freeze the second we exit the elevators and go outside. Snowflakes land on my shoulder, the wind tugging at my hair. The heat is a godsend when he slams the door shut behind us, the driver off a half-second later.

“What’s your name?”

Outside is a blur, the clumps of snow on the side of the road, the people, and the tourists. Cars aggressively move around us because even at this time of night traffic is a bitch. I pull away from the window knowing I can’t make out a single thing.

“Russet.”

He frowns slightly. “Like the potato?”

If I had a dollar for every time someone said that I wouldn’t be as rich as this mafia prince, but I’d be pretty damn close.

“Last name?” he asks in that same bored drawl. He wiggles in his seat, his long legs making things difficult to get comfortable.

“Smith.”

“Russet Smith.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. With or without the coat, he looks like a model. Dark hair is curled at the tips, just slightly too long, in a way that makes me want to brush it back. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up, his muscular forearms on display.

And then there’s those eyes. Smoldering is putting it lightly. They’re pure smoke. The kind that suffocates you before a firefighter can save your life.

Falling for the pretty boy. Classic Russet.

It’s important to remember Maxim Zimin can kill me in two seconds flat. And if he doesn’t want to then he’ll just get somebody else to do his dirty work.

Maybe he’ll hop out and the driver will keep going. I’ll get to some scary wharf or a back alley. Will it be a bullet to the head or something kinder like drowning?

Shit, it could be waterboarding.

I don’t know anything about Marissa’s operations but of course, they’d drill me. I was so fucking busy not trying to trip over myself in front of the Russian mafia, I forgot to worry about a very important detail. I was planted here by their enemy.

Marissa called this morning. Gave me no warning which I suppose is a good thing. If she had given me even one night to think about it, my nerves would have won.

That’s not true.

No, it’s not. Because I’m doing this for Daisy.

The car jolts to a stop or maybe that’s just my heart.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Zimin.” Maxim flings open his door, but somebody else gets mine.

“Is this?” It’s an underground parking garage but there’s no mistaking he knows his way around. The door to the elevator is already open, a button is pushed for us and it takes an obscene amount of time for us to arrive at a penthouse.

“I said welcome home.” Maxim narrows his eyes, disturbed that I doubted him .

My mouth is on the marble floor, though. The private elevator opens to a circular foyer, complete with a chandelier.

“Five bedrooms, six bathrooms,” Maxim lists off. “A library which doubles as my study, a private gym and butler’s pantry. Like I said welcome home.”

He kicks off his dress shoes and moves toward the living room. Not knowing if that means this is a shoes-off household, I remove my high heels, my toes wiggling in relief before I scurry to follow after him.

And then kick myself for doing so.

I should be more cautious, but not to sound like complete street trash, I have a feeling I’d get lost in this place.

There’s no chance to fully understand my surroundings. It’s fancy crown molding and stiff and unused furniture. It’s not even that it’s guyish, it’s just. . . sterile.

He doesn’t bother to flick on lights until he gets to a bedroom—his bedroom—and reaches a bathroom. The light is too bright in comparison, but it’s not just that.

I stand there annoyed because I have ten thousand things I want to say to him.

Hey, I know this is weird, but please don’t hate me.

I got roped into this.

Please don’t kill me.

How do you feel about separate rooms?

Or divorce for that matter?

By the way, are you going to kill me?

“Lift up your dress.”

“What?”

He’s not even looking at me. His typical bored expression stretches across his face as he takes off his wristwatch.

“Lift up your dress,” he repeats, each word annunciated like he’s worried I’m too stupid to understand.

But I’m not .

My fingers pluck at the material, balling it up as I bunch it upward, the tiny gems digging into my palms.

He blinks like he’s surprised at how docile I am.

I could pretend like I am too but I’m standing in front of mafia royalty.

“Whose idea was it to not wear any underwear?”

My face is already red from the way he stands and stares.

“Yours?” he presses. “Or Marissa’s?”

For the first time I see the anger beneath the mask of calm and that scares me more. Being bored is one thing. Being apathetic until the beast rises is another.

Fear rises when he steps closer, those dark eyes glancing down at my bare pussy in a way that makes me want to squirm.

I do squirm, lifting on my tiptoes, when he runs one finger against me.

“Answer me, Mrs. Zimin.”

“They didn’t give me any underwear.”

The granny panties weren’t going to cut it when I arrived at Marissa’s and it was one more way for her to twist the knife in my back. She thought it was funny or maybe a gift for the groom. Easy access.