Page 7 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

His family could never know. Not yet. His brothers would slaughter him. His cousins would slaughter him after his brothers were done with him.

So, he certainly couldn’t take her to his family estate as his bride.

His only probable solution was to take her somewhere far, somewhere safe.

A house on the outskirts of the city―one of the many safe houses the Nikolais owned but rarely used.

It would buy him time to figure out how the hell he was supposed to go about the situation.

Fedya’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as he thought back to the incident at the bar three days ago. The ease with which Cormac had handed her over. He did it like an afterthought, like it made sense to him even if it still didn’t make full sense to Fedya.

Fedya had done business with men similar to Cormac before. Cold, ruthless assholes who saw their daughters as nothing more than bargaining chips. But with Cormac, there was no hesitation, no indication that it was a difficult choice for him, not even for show.

It was like he’d been looking forward to the day he’d be free of her.

She was his burden, and he wanted to let her go.

Fedya scoffed as he scratched his fake beard. Who was he kidding anyway? This was Cormac he was talking about. If he could rat out his own brother, he could do anything.

From a distance, Fedya could see all three figures becoming bolder as his car rumbled to a stop on the dirt road.

He stepped out into the biting, howling wind, raging so forcefully that it slammed his door shut before he could get the chance.

The weather was rather ominous that evening, and even though Fedya wasn’t one to believe in superstitions, he couldn’t deny the slightly uneasy feeling in his body that made each of his steps even heavier than the last.

Cormac wasn’t exactly the most reliable man in the world, and there was a good chance that he could, for some reason best known to him, decide to shoot Fedya in the face once the exchange had taken place.

Steel bones of trucks lined up behind Fedya’s car, each packed with carefully handpicked ammunition.

Fedya had worked hard to make sure that the trackers inside the crates were virtually invisible―thin strips of nanotech embedded into the lining of the wood, sensitive enough to transmit movement across borders.

His small team back in Moscow would monitor every shipment and relocation.

He’d spent months tracking the Irish down, months arranging this exchange, for this opportunity, though he never in his wildest imagination thought it would come with a wedding ring.

His overcoat fluttered with the wind, collar turned high, a fedora shadowing the upper half of his face. His gloved hands jammed into his pockets as he made his way down the short, narrow path that led straight to them.

Cormac stood dramatically, with his back to the wind, an exquisite wool coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his lips lifted when he saw Fedya, his teeth gleaming with a notorious grin, like the interesting part of his day had finally arrived.

At his side stood a priest who was a head shorter than him, a nervous-looking man clutching his Bible like a weapon. And then beside them stood his bride, whose name he did not know.

The first time Fedya laid his eyes on her, he knew she was beautiful.

It had only been three days, and yet, staring at her now felt as if he hadn’t seen her before.

She stood draped in black lace, the intricate patterns clinging to every dip and soft curve of her body.

A shawl-like scarf―the same lace―was wrapped around her head and neck, veiling her hair and casting soft shadows over her pale face.

The greens in her eyes seemed darker, or maybe it was the thick, black makeup around her eyes; he couldn’t be sure.

But her gaze was cold, her posture stiff, her body unyielding to the harsh wind.

She stood like a rock, unmovable. She stared at him like he was nothing, like he meant nothing, like none of this meant anything.

And yet, there was something about her cold indifference, her blatantly rude stare, something hauntingly ethereal about this woman, as if she belonged more to shadow than flesh, beautiful in the way storms are beautiful just before they break.

“Jonathan Riley,” Cormac greeted, stepping forward, looking far too pleased to see him. “You’re right on time. I was afraid we might have to cancel the whole thing if you showed up any minute later than now.”

Fedya took off his fedora before taking Cormac’s hand. He nodded curtly. “Don.”

“Please, we’re family now,” Cormac said, glancing at his daughter. “Cormac is just fine.”

Turning to her, he said, “Maeve, where are your manners?”

So that’s her name , Fedya thought. Maeve .

Maeve.

Maeve.

Maeve.

The name lingered on his lips, and they moved noiselessly, feeling the quiet syllables on his tongue. Maeve . He liked her name. He wanted to say it out loud, wanted her to respond to the sound of her name from his mouth.

Maeve remained silent, staring at Fedya with barely disguised hostility.

She wasn’t doing anything to hide her disgust for him, her disrespect, her hate.

Fedya was a little amused if he was being honest. Even without saying a word, her emotions were volatile and palpable, and he couldn’t blame her for it.

Her father was marrying her off to a stranger after all. She had every right to be mad.

A muscle in Cormac’s jaw ticked imperceptibly, a clear indication that he hated his daughter’s disrespect. Yet, he seemed to be generous today, because he let her go without a scolding, and he turned back to Fedya with another grin.

“Forgive her. She’s a little bit salty about the sudden union,” Cormac said. “Our women are docile, respectful, and they know how to play their roles effectively. Despite her ignorant first impression—or second, rather—she has been trained in the way. You will enjoy her.”

Fedya didn’t like the way Cormac said those last four words. You will enjoy her. Like she was a piece of meat.

“Father Brennan,” Cormac called, turning to the priest, who quickly adjusted himself.

“There’s a chapel,” he offered, gesturing behind a rise in the hills where a small white building stood, its cross weathered and crooked.

“No.” That was Maeve. Her voice startled Fedya a little on the inside. “Here.”

Fedya looked back at her, at the thin line she’d set her lips to, at the deviant look clouding her eyes. The wind whipped at her dress, threatening to blow her shawl away, but her grip on it was strong.

Cormac raised a brow of disapproval. “That’s your husband’s decision to make. Not yours.”

Her words were acid. “He is not my husband.”

“ Yet ,” Fedya corrected. Her eyes snapped to his, and her jaw clenched. Without looking away from her, he said to the priest. “Let’s do it here.”

Father Brennan nodded, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Of course.”

His Bible was leather-bound, and the wind tore at the pages as he held them down with trembling hands, his voice barely rising over the howl of the violent borderland gusts.

“If―if we could all bow our heads for a moment,” he began, darting a glance at Cormac, who paid him no heed. He was watching his daughter like a hawk—his daughter, who was still glaring at her soon-to-be husband as if she wanted to gouge out his eyes.

Fedya was staring at her features, at how strikingly similar she looked to her father. He stared at her mouth―red and full, the bottom lip fuller than the top―and for a brief, lucid moment, he imagined those lips kissing down his stomach, unzipping his pants with her teeth.

“We are gathered here, in the eyes of God, to witness the union of this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Though the setting is unconventional,” the priest faltered briefly, “the commitment made here today is no less solemn.”

Fedya reluctantly tore his blank gaze from Maeve and stared at the Father instead.

Even with him here, there was nothing sacred about this marriage.

It was a transaction that still felt surreal, even with his wife-to-be staring daggers at him like he was the one who came up with the plan in the first place.

“Marriage is a sacred covenant, instituted by God, signifying the spiritual union between Christ and His Church. It is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, soberly, and in the fear of Him.”

He paused, then looked at Fedya.

“Do you, Jonathan Riley, take this woman, Maeve O’Rourke, to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, from this forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, and cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

This was truly happening then.

Fedya didn’t blink. “I do.”

Then the priest turned to Maeve, his tone softer, almost apologetic. “And do you, Maeve O’Rourke, take this man, Jonathan Riley, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and―”

“Yes.”

Father Brennan let out a faint breath, and a guard stepped forward from nowhere, holding a small velvet box. Fedya wasn’t surprised; he was certain it wasn’t just the three of them here. As capable as Cormac was in dealing with his own shit, he never moved alone.

There were two simple gold bands, and Fedya plucked one of the rings out.

“Come here,” he said to Maeve, needing her closer since they were a considerable distance apart. They looked more like strangers than two people who just got married. Then again, they really were strangers.

Maeve parted her lips, her scowl drowning her face at the authority in his tone. But her father spoke before she could.

His voice was as cold as ice. “Do as your husband says.”

Maeve’s eyes tightened, her hands curling into fists, her breath shaky upon her father’s request. Silently, she took a few steps forward, shortening the distance between them.

Her hands were by her sides, though, her fists still curled, even though they both knew Fedya was about to slide the ring down her finger.

“Give me your hand.”

She didn’t look at him as she lifted her hand. Heat thrummed softly on Fedya’s skin at the sight of her fingers: smooth, long, and slender. Unblemished. Acrylic nails as black as midnight.

He took her hand in his, ignoring the tingle he felt as he slid the jewelry down her finger.

He raised her hand to his cold lips, but she wasn’t looking at him, and he hated that she wasn’t looking at him.

So, he tugged her forward roughly, and she let out the tiniest gasp as her body collided with his.

Now that her wide, angry yet perturbed eyes were on his, he held her gaze as he pressed a wet kiss to her knuckles.

Her breathing stilled, and her muscles locked up, as if she couldn’t bear the contact between them.

The wind finally succeeded in tearing her shawl loose, sending it fluttering like a dark banner behind her.

Her long red hair whipped across her face, strands catching over her eyes and sticking to the blood-red lipstick on her mouth.

The wind carried the scent of her shampoo to his nose, a sharp, floral, and dizzying smell.

Fedya inhaled deeply, like a man possessed, uncaring for his two-man audience.

His hand rose and curled around the delicate line of her neck, and then his mouth was on hers—a deep, hungry kiss.

It was wet, hot, and possessive. And so brief it felt like it barely even happened because Maeve had frozen only for a split second, before she pushed against him, struggling against the feral press of his lips.

Her body twisted in rejection, and Fedya read the message before abruptly pulling back, a bit dazed and confused as to what had come over him in that second.

Maeve’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wild and blazing, her chest rising and falling. Disgust so hot seared into her face as she stumbled back from him, dragging her trembling hand over her mouth so hard her lipstick smeared against her cheek in a crimson streak.

Her eyes were violent, brimming with heat, not tears, and she spat onto the dirt between them, every line of her face carved with revulsion.

Still shaking, she grabbed the second ring without ceremony and shoved it onto his finger.

She stepped away the moment it was done, widening the space between them like it could undo what had just happened.

Venom dripped from her breathy voice when she spoke. Her nostrils flared with indignation. “Touch me like that again and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

Her hand curled into a fist, then she scrubbed violently against the fabric of her dress, over and over, like she could rip the memory of his lips against her knuckles.

And Fedya nearly smiled. God, he was so close to breaking out into a grin.

“Now, now, sweetheart,” Cormac chided behind them, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “That’s no way to speak to your husband.”

Fedya nodded at the priest to continue.

“By the power vested in me, and by the grace of God, I now pronounce you husband and wife. May the Lord bless this union and keep it, may His face shine upon you and give you inexplicable peace.”

“Amen,” Fedya said as the priest closed his book with a finality, concluding the ceremony with a final prayer.

Cormac stepped forward with another toothy grin, clamping a hard hand down Fedya’s shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Jonathan.”

“It’s an honor to be one with you.”

Cormac nodded. “I’m sure.”

Fedya noticed then that he barely sent another glance his daughter’s way. Cormac’s men flanked out from wherever it was they were hiding, all marching forward to the crates of ammunition behind Fedya’s car.

There were no goodbyes exchanged between Maeve and her father. No hesitation. No hug. No forehead kiss. No display of affection, no matter how subtle. Nothing at all between them. As if they’d been strangers from the start.

And it made Fedya even more curious about their seemingly estranged relationship.

Right now, though, that was the least of his problems. The deal was done. He was married, and now he was going to take his bride home because from the second he had slid that ring onto her finger, she had become―whether or not she wanted it―irrevocably his, and he would make sure she knew that.