Page 8 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Maeve was fuming in her seat. She wanted to break something―no, she wanted to shove a toothbrush deep into her throat and scrub away every trace of her husband’s kiss.

She wanted to drive her hand through her skull, sink her fingers into her brain, and rip out the memory of his fresh, minty breath, his cologne, and the wet feel of his tongue on her teeth.

But she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried, she could still feel him, still taste him. His tongue on her tongue. His hand squeezing the nape of her neck. His touch possessive and rough. His teeth against her lip. It was the most intense and the most tragic five seconds of her life.

His disgusting feral kiss seemed to be impaled in her memory. Engraved on her lips. Driving the knife deeper into her chest, reminding her of her unfortunate fate.

She was married to this strange man, wearing a ring her father bought with his money and a dress her father had delivered to her room earlier that morning.

As promised, he had delivered her to Jonathan like a pile of garbage, and now she was his wife.

Now, she was in his car, heading to an unknown destination with this unknown man.

You will enjoy her.

Maeve had never hated her father more when he uttered those four disgusting words.

And maybe that was the confidence this animal behind the wheel needed to touch her the way he did. To kiss her the way he did. Like she was his property. Like he owned her. Like she was his to touch as he pleased.

Rage festered like rot in her guts as her mind grew into a minefield of the countless horrors she would meet now that she was married to him.

He was driving as casually and leisurely as possible, with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the window ledge.

He looked relaxed, not a single crease between his brows.

Was this normal for him? Ripping innocent women from their homes and marrying them because of insignificant deals? Was she just another victim of his?

What was he going to do to her when he took her to wherever it was they were going?

What if he killed her just like he killed that man at the bar?

What would he do if he asked for sex and she denied him?

Because Maeve knew, from the deepest bottom of her heart, that she’d rather kill herself than give her body to this mean-faced killer.

The wedding band was a weight on her finger. She clenched her hands in her lap, her nails biting so hard into her palms they drew blood. She was trying―really trying―not to scream at this nightmare that had become her life.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been here if she were faster.

If she’d taken Margot’s words seriously, the second she uttered them.

If she’d fled the very second Margot told her to.

Or better still, maybe she wouldn’t be living in this bondage if she’d developed the courage to escape from her father’s wings all these years ago.

Then again, he’d find her. He would go to the ends of the earth to find her just to marry her off to this psychopath.

Whatever way she looked, as long as she remained Cormac’s daughter, she would inevitably get married to Jonathan Riley.

It may not even have been him. It could have been anyone else.

It could have been any other fate besides forced marriage.

Either way, there was no guaranteeing Cormac wouldn’t use her for his own greed.

And he had succeeded today, but Maeve wasn’t entirely sunk with resignation.

She may not have been able to get out of this ruse of a marriage, but she would make sure to get herself out of Jonathan Riley’s claws. Even if she died trying. In the meantime, she’d be sure to give him hell.

“You’ve just made the worst decision of your life,” she gritted, breaking the heavy silence between them. “Marrying me. You’ll regret it.”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road, but he nodded, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “The best decisions are always the worst ones.”

“Whoever told you that was a liar.”

His lips curled gently, and she hated it. Hated that he found her frustration amusing.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a fool if you believed the nonsense my father said about being docile. If you think I’m going to roll over and play obedient, respectful wife, then you should probably turn back now and return me to my father.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Of course, you will. You’re a freak. A foolish one at that.”

He turned to her now, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of pure nonchalance. His eyes were unnaturally brown, skating over her face and lingering on her lips for a beat too long. Maeve remembered the curve of his mouth against hers, and she wanted to vomit.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Maeve.”

He was calm, infuriatingly calm. He even seemed to be growing more amused by her, by the flare of her nostrils, by the angry flush on her cheeks, and by the dark look she shot him.

“You have no right to call my name―”

“You’re my wife,” he cut her short, his voice deepening a fraction. “I will call you whatever I want.”

The metallic taste of blood filled Maeve’s mouth from how hard she’d been biting her tongue. “I’m not your wife. I will never be your wife.”

She raised her hand in that very second and ripped the ring from her finger, jammed her hand on the window, and tossed the jewelry out. By the time she looked back at him, he was staring at her as if he were oddly fascinated by her.

“I’ll just get you another one tomorrow,” he said, his gaze dropping to her finger. “I didn’t like this one anyway.”

A strange, deranged kind of laughter tore out of Maeve’s chest. “What makes you think I’ll accept your ring?”

“You will,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t harsh, but he’d said it with a finality that frightened her.

“You’re a monster,” she said, swallowing thickly. “You’re just like him. A monster hiding behind a clean suit. You’re just as much of a sick bastard as my father is. You’re just as callous, just as cold, just as selfish.”

“You barely know me, Maeve.”

“I know the likes of you,” she sneered, even more annoyed by his gentle voice. There was nothing gentle about the man who pulled a trigger at that man at the bar with a smirk on his face. “You’re a predator and I’m just another victim of yours―”

“You’re not a victim.” He looked angry. “You’re my wife.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You. Are. My. Wife,” he said, his jaw clenching and unclenching with every word. His fingers flexed around the wheel. “The sooner you understand this, the better. You’re mine now, Maeve. You belong to me.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Then he smiled, slow and feral. His lips peeled back slowly, teeth bared wide and deliberate. It wasn’t joy or amusement. It was the smile of a predator who liked it when his prey fought back, a twisted kind of smile that made Maeve wary of him. Who the fuck was this man?

“Careful, zhena ,” he murmured, his tongue curling around that word in a strangely thick Russian accent. Like it had slipped out of his mouth, but nothing this man did or said seemed to be by accident, which left her even more confused. “There are worse things than dying.”

His gaze turned to her, and she held her breath. “And I’d rather break a wife than bury her.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that, but it was clear he had just threatened her. At the end of the day, she was right. Her father had sold her to a psychopath, and she wasn’t going to stick around and wait for death at his hands.

She looked around, blood rushing through her veins, her heart pounding, and her mind racing with countless possibilities about how this could end. The highway stretched endlessly ahead, with no lights in sight. No witnesses. No help. He could kill her now, and no one would know, no one would care.

Her eyes felt wet, and she shook her head, annoyed with herself for becoming so easily overwhelmed with emotions like these when she was supposed to be thinking of ways to get out of this man’s car.

She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back to see if Jonathan was looking.

She reached for the door handle, ready to rip the door open, barely bracing herself to leap. But a click echoed around her, and the doors automatically locked, the handle going stiff in her loose grip.

Maeve’s head whipped around. Jonathan wasn’t even looking at her.

“Your father warned me you might try something impulsive. Your face gave it away,” he said, leaning back against the seat with a tired sigh.

“Very bold of you, by the way. You’d still be my wife even if you threw yourself out of the car and broke your neck.

You’d be my wife even if you smashed your skull on the road. You’d be my wife even in your grave.”

Maeve’s heart rattled against her ribcage like it was begging to be let out.

She turned her neck away from her, exhaling with difficulty, tears stinging at the back of her eyes.

Heat and adrenaline and anger and fear and exhaustion and everything else buzzed under her skin.

Her throat was dryer than the Sahara. Her brain was short-circuiting. Her resilience was flicking on and off.

She was quiet for a hot moment. Her eyes appeared dead as they stared straight ahead at the long, winding stretch of road ahead.

The car left the highway, tires crunching onto a gravel road that led them farther away from the city and deeper into the outskirts.

The sight of the narrowing tree line made her unease grow.

Her voice was a silent, deadly thing. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home.”

Nothing about the property wedged between the tall pinewood trees looked like home to Maeve.

In a way, it did look like a home. A modest country cottage tucked at the end of a winding dirt path, framed by weeds and purple hibiscuses.

Smoke drifted from the chimney, and ivy curled along the stone walls.

But it looked devoid of life, of human presence.