Page 12 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Flipping the tap shut, she turned on her heel and left the bathroom.

She headed out of the room and was immediately attacked by the pleasant aroma of roasted chicken, vegetables, and freshly baked bread.

Her stomach grumbled at once, and she placed a hand on it, like it could stop the hungry worms feeding on the walls of her empty stomach.

After her father announced her marriage to Jonathan—Fedya, she had barely had the appetite to stomach proper food into her system. She could barely even manage a sip of water earlier this morning before her father drove her to her doom.

And now, the temptingly delicious smell of what Fedya had cooked teased her senses and scrambled her brain.

Maeve turned the corner and found him untying an apron from his waist. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing an intricate spiral of black ink on his right forearm, disappearing beneath the rest of his sleeve.

His inky hair fell over his face as he folded the apron into a neat square.

“You came out right on time,” he said, meticulously arranging cutlery next to the two plates that sat across from each other on the table, surrounded by food—roasted herb-crusted chicken thighs, roasted vegetables, creamy mashed potatoes, bread, and green salad.

There was something domestic about the way he set the table, about the fact that he’d cooked everything himself.

Maeve didn’t want to find anything he did fascinating. “Dinner’s ready.”

Her throat was parched, and her eyes zeroed in on the chilled bottle of water on the table staring back at her. “I’m not hungry.”

It was like he didn’t hear her. “Come here,” he said, beckoning her forward with a flick of his wrist.

“I said I’m not hungry.”

His eyes flickered to her. “But you are.”

Maeve ground her teeth. “I don’t trust you. I’ve heard about you, ruthless Nikolais. For all I know, you could poison me to get rid of me easily.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll die together, Maeve. That’s a rather romantic way to go.”

Maeve’s stomach grumbled to the point of pain. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks red, especially when Fedya raised a knowing brow.

She neared the table. “I don’t trust you.”

“It’d be foolish for you to since we’ve just met,” he said, pulling the chair back for her before she could resist. “But if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t use roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. I’d use a bullet or my hands or a knife or my feet. So many many options, zhena .”

“Well, it’s not like I asked you to cook.” Maeve snapped.

“It’s the duty of a man to take care of his wife,” he said, tossing that infuriating word around her again. “Sit.”

They sat at the table in silence, the tension as thick as the chicken gravy.

She stared at the devastatingly appealing food in front of her, pushed away the violent image of her foaming to her death at the table due to being poisoned, and tried focusing on eating the food instead.

It tasted annoyingly good, and she hated that she didn’t hate it, that her hands didn’t tremble as she fed herself, that her body didn’t reject the food, that her brain was starting to settle.

He poured a glass of water and placed it in front of her. “I taught my brothers how to cook, you know,” he said, initiating conversation for some reason. “It’d be a shame not to cook for my wife.”

Maeve slammed her fork down on the table. “Stop it.”

Fedya stared. “Stop what?”

“Calling me that.”

“I think we’ve established, time without number, that you—”

“Yes.” Her smile was poisonous. “That doesn’t mean you should rub it in my face.

Marrying me may be your biggest achievement for all I care, but it’s a tragedy for me.

It’s the worst fucking thing to ever happen to me, so I’d appreciate it if you stopped referring to me as your wife every two fucking seconds. ”

“No.”

That was it. No argument. Nothing. Just a single word of rebuttal.

Maeve shut her eyes for a moment, wondering why in hell she even bothered in the first place. Fedya Nikolai looked like the type of man to do exactly what he liked.

And he loved calling her his wife.

She wasn’t sure she could spend another minute in his presence, so even though she was barely full, she stood up from the table abruptly, pushing her half-empty plate away. She could feel his eyes on her, dragging across her body like heat. She hated how aware she was of it, of him.

“You’ve barely touched your food. Where are you going?” he asked without looking up from his plate, cutting into his chicken calmly.

“To try not to kill myself.”

“Are you wearing a bra?”

Maeve’s eye twitched, her spine straightening with disbelief. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

He finally looked up, his eyes cold and unbothered like he had just asked her what the time was. “I asked if you’re wearing a bra. I need your size.”

She blinked, lips parting. “Excuse me?”

“I’m picking up a few things for you,” he said, sipping from his glass of water like it was wine. “You didn’t exactly pack a suitcase here.”

Heat flared up her neck. “You don’t need to know my bra size.”

“I disagree.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I can guess your panties just fine—small, probably a size four—but bras are trickier. I’d rather not guess and get it wrong. I assume you’d be more annoyed if I brought home something that didn’t fit.”

“The fact that you’re talking to me right now is annoying the fuck out of me already.”

“You’re in my house now,” he said, dropping the napkin. “Eating my food. If I want to buy you something to wear, I will.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Do you prefer lace or cotton?”

“I prefer you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Alright then.” He nodded, standing to his feet. His gaze unabashedly darted to her chest, and Maeve wanted to shield herself from him. “I’ll figure it out myself. Shouldn’t be too hard. And you will accept what I give you because you belong to me now.”

“I belong to no one,” she sneered. “Get that into your skull, Fedya. I belong to no one.”

“Your father didn’t think so,” he said, voice dipping lower. “He sold you to me like scrap metal.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Why not? He’s the reason you’re sitting at this table, the reason you were wearing a ring before you tossed it out. The reason you’re eating the food I made, in a house I control. You should hate him more than you hate me.”

Maeve was a ball of fury. She wasn’t thinking as she reached for the plate in front of her, her hands shaking as she lifted it. Then, without warning, he flung it straight at him.

Fedya dodged as easily as breathing, and the plate shattered to the floor behind him, chicken and potatoes splattered onto the floor.

“Fuck you,” she cursed, turned, and stormed out of the dining room.

Her heart trembled because she could hear him following right after her, not breaking stride even once.

For a second, she imagined if he would reach out and wring her neck from behind.

Then she walked faster, ignoring him as he called out her name.

She opened the door to the room and rushed in before slamming the door in his face.

“Maeve,” he called, but he sounded like he was smiling. He gave it a gentle nudge from behind just as she twisted the lock.

“Open the door, Maeve.”

“Go to hell.”

“I live there.”

“You can eat the rest of the fucking meal by yourself,” she shouted from inside. “Better yet, choke on it.”

Maeve’s breath was shaky as she pressed her ear against the door and listened to his low chuckle of dark amusement.

She waited for another minute, her hands tight around the doorknob even though the door was already locked.

And then she was only able to breathe after she heard his retreating footsteps.

The room turned suffocating after he left. Minutes ticked endlessly, but she couldn’t stop pacing. She had walked around the room sixty-five times, marking every corner, every spot. Each step echoed her frustration and disbelief.

She sat on the bed, the mattress unbelievably plush and comfortable.

For a moment, she imagined actually sharing the room with him.

This bed with the hunk of muscle that he was.

There wasn’t enough space on the bed to distinctively let each of them have their own spaces.

It was inevitable that their bodies would touch.

And for a very conflicting moment, she thought of her body tangled on the bed with him, of their limbs twisted together like a pretzel, of his strong arms around her.

And she violently shook her head, resisting the urge to slap her own cheek.

It was disgusting—this tiny, little, insignificant attraction she felt towards him. Any human with working eyes could see that he was gorgeous. He was hauntingly beautiful, handsome in a way she hadn’t seen before in a man.

It was dreadful to think that she found him attractive.

However, the thought of what would happen if her father knew the truth about his so-called American arms dealer filled her with a different kind of dread. Is there a chance he would have known? A chance he sold her off to him, knowing the truth of Fedya’s identity?

Maeve couldn’t rule it out, but then again, her father wasn’t one to tread lightly with deceit. There was a higher chance he’d have killed Fedya if he knew than marrying her off to him.