Page 11 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Psychopath . The word bounced up and down the space of Maeve’s brain as she stared at the bed that sat in the middle of the dark room. I’m married to a psychopath .

Everything about the bed was snow white.

White sheets, white blankets, white pillows, white everything.

The room was small, splattered in depressing shades of black and gray.

It was far from appealing, far from being aesthetically pleasing.

There wasn’t a single portrait on the walls, not a single thing that beautified.

It was an artist’s worst nightmare, and Maeve was convinced her life had become it.

“What do you think?” his voice came from behind. He was leaning against the door, hands in his pockets, as he watched her take in the space. “It’s not much, but it will do.”

His voice was slowly becoming the worst thing to ever happen to her. She hated how deep it was, how alluring the timbre of it was, how every Russian accented word touched her spine and words. He had proven to her, without any doubt whatsoever, that he was a crazy bastard.

He was dangerous, sick in the head, and she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine the kind of atrocities he may have committed in the past with those large, calloused, tattooed hands of his.

The kind of atrocities he was presently committing, even by standing here with her. The kind he’d commit in the future.

And yet, he was her husband.

Maeve was torn between screaming and ripping her hair out.

The hatred she harbored for him was a fully formed thing that festered deep in her loins.

But she couldn’t deny the caution she felt each time he neared her.

The queasiness in her belly whenever she stared into the icy blue madness of his eyes.

The fear that tingled her spine when he was near, fear that there was a chance he could snap and actually kill her.

Though with every passing second, she was beginning to doubt he would actually rip her life from her.

He seemed crazed with the idea that they were married, that she was his wife, that he had a right to her.

He seemed too fascinated with the idea of having her in his grasp to entertain the thought of killing her.

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or endangered by it.

Maeve inhaled a deep breath, turned on her heel, and faced him with a blank stare. “It’s ugly.”

Fedya was watching her with an intensity that crawled up her spine. “Unfit for the magnitude of your beauty, yes,” he said with a nod. His compliment was like a lash to the skin. “But we’ll have to make do for now.”

“For now,” Maeve reiterated, looking him over. Pieces of clues were starting to click into place in her head. “If you are a Nikolai as you claim, why have you brought me here? I’m aware the entire family resides in the estate.”

He just kept staring at her without saying a word. It was like he was waiting for her to arrive at her own version of what was truly going on.

“Unless,” she said, narrowing her eyes at his frame, “they don’t know about this. They don’t know you’ve married me. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because I’m your dirty little secret from an operation gone wrong?”

At that, he smiled wickedly, and Maeve refused to acknowledge how dazzling it made him look, how it threatened to weaken her knees.

He nodded more to himself than to her. His voice was like smoke. “You’re smart. I really like that.”

Maeve straightened, internally appalled by the flutter she felt in her stomach from his approval. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why have you gone behind your family’s backs to do something like this?”

“I’m a man, Maeve,” he said, every trace of humor gone from his face. “I can make my own decisions. I can take responsibility for my own actions, and that’s why you’re here right now. Because you’re my responsibility.”

“And then what?” she asked, clenching her teeth. “Now that you’ve kidnapped me and brought me to the middle of bumfuck nowhere, what happens next? Am I going to spend the rest of my life being your prisoner?”

“I’m pleased that you’re thinking of our future together already, Maeve,” he said, pushing himself off the door. He walked towards her, and she retreated back until the back of her legs hit the foot of the bed. She staggered but didn’t fall.

“But I like to take things one step at a time,” he said, halting only when his toes touched hers. With each heavy breath she took, her breasts grazed his chest, and she almost willed herself to stop breathing.

Fedya frowned, shaking his head in disapproval. “Oh, come on, Maeve. Don’t suddenly act like you’re scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, her voice tight even though at that very moment, she felt differently.

“You shouldn’t,” he responded. He nodded at the bed behind her. “Rest. Take a shower and join me for dinner.”

“I’m not sharing this room with you,” she said defiantly, curling her hands into fists by her sides. His eyes moved from her face to her fists, lingering on her whitened knuckles.

“That’s okay,” he nodded, and Maeve was surprised he hadn’t argued with her about it. “Like I said, I’ll make you learn to need me. I’ll let you have your space for now.”

There he was, using those two threatening words again.

Maeve’s temper peaked. Her voice was a lethal spit. “Get out.”

He was a wall of steel in front of her, his jaw twitching slightly at her tone. It was clear he didn’t tolerate any form of bossing around, any form of blatant disrespect. And she’d been walking that thin line since he showed up earlier today.

Maeve managed to go around him, her steps hard against the hardwood floor as she forced the door open. Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. “Get the fuck out.”

Maeve’s eyes burned as she waited for him to turn around. Her vile, volatile emotions had reached their limit, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold herself together. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, so she needed him to leave as soon as possible.

With a reluctant sigh and his hands still in his pockets, Fedya turned around and nodded. “As you wish, my love.”

Maeve’s throat bobbed when he uttered those two words again.

She barely let him leave the room completely before slamming the door so hard it trembled against its hinges.

The moment the bang echoed around her, the tears fell from her eyes.

Hot, acidic tears burned her skin with every rush down her cheeks.

Her back slid down the door as she hiccuped, sobbing quietly into the palms of her hands.

Her head throbbed with a headache of the century as her brain recapped everything that had happened to her in the last three days.

What the hell was she going to do now? How could she possibly get out of this thing she was tied to with this Nikolai monster?

Even as intimidating as he was when he was Jonathan Riley, she had been determined to do anything possible to get out of this marriage.

But now he was Fedya Nikolai. He was a devilishly beautiful, twisted son of a bitch.

He looked at her like he could read her thoughts, like he knew what she was capable of even without doing it yet.

He looked like the type of person to figure her out as easily as flipping over the page of a book.

It irked her how the reality of her nightmare of a life was starting to sink in, like tiny needles piercing holes all over her skin. But she couldn’t possibly give up, could she? She couldn’t just sit back and allow a strange man to dictate how she would live her own life.

She hated her father for doing this to her. Hated Fedya for the monster he was. But most of all, she hated herself for being such an unlucky person, constantly stuck in situations that were out of her control. Constantly tossed about like a ragdoll.

With a shaky sigh, she roughly dragged her hands across her face, wiping the stupid tears away.

For fuck’s sake, she needed to stop feeling sorry for herself.

She needed to find a way out of this, no matter what, whether or not she was married to the Devil’s incarnate.

An insane man whom she could have successfully killed moments ago if she had been lucky enough.

A man who placed a gun inside his own mouth, knowing fully well that one of those bullets could shatter his brain.

A chill ran down her spine at the memory, but she shook it away.

She couldn’t be scared of him. Now that her father had left her for dead in the hands of his enemies, fear was the last thing she needed if she wanted to walk out of this alive. If she wanted her freedom. A freedom she’d never tasted in all the twenty-four years of her life.

Maeve wasn’t sure how long she sat down in front of that door for, staring blankly at nothing, her mind working overtime with solutions and loopholes. She finally stood up when her butt grew numb and trudged to the bathroom.

It was a small place with white, pristine tiles on the wall and floor.

A small bathtub, a glass shower cubicle stood at the corner, a toilet, a sink, and a mirror above it.

She glared at the reflection of the weak woman glaring back at her—red faced, a swollen bottom lip from how hard she’d been biting it to withhold the sound of her cries, the streaks of mascara and that stupid streak of lipstick coating her cheek, red hair all over her face, wet eyelashes, thin streaks of red in the whites of her eyes from crying too hard and too long.

She flipped the tap open, placed her hands under the shrill gush of the ice-cold water for a minute before splashing it onto her face. She splashed and splashed until the only evidence of her pain was her flushed cheeks.

She ran a hand through her hair, straightened her posture, and stared defiantly at the mirror. She was going to get out of this marriage, even if it cost her life.