Page 9 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Was this where he lived every day? Where he brought his ammunition?

Maeve turned her suspicious look to him as he killed the engine. “Do you have any family?”

He didn’t respond. He stepped out and circled to open her door.

She sank her weight deeper into the chair.

“Out,” he growled.

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Where are we?”

“A place no one will find us,” he answered honestly. “Now get out before I make you.”

Maeve’s brow lifted, but she said nothing. She slid out, chin lifted high as he slammed the door behind her.

He moved ahead of her, pressing numbers into a keypad. The door creaked, and an electronic beep chimed throughout the house before the door opened automatically. Jonathan turned back, a brow raised, his face blank as he silently urged her inside.

Maeve stood still behind him. The breeze was softer here, gentle in her hair and skin. The sun was setting already, and the sky was painted with streaks of red and pink.

“You first,” she said icily.

Jonathan scoffed, a short burst of incredulity, and then, as if he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he stepped in.

Maeve followed after a moment, taking note of how the doors were steel beneath the wood grain, the windows reinforced, and every drawer and cabinet locked tight.

There was little warmth inside, a result of the soft, glowing hearth burning gently in the living room.

The walls were so freakishly plain that it irked her.

There wasn’t a single burst of color, not a single tone, no design, no nothing.

Just plain. Like vanilla ice cream, except that it at least tasted good. Nothing about this place was palatable.

But Maeve barely got to question it, because the moment she looked back at Jonathan, he was ripping off his gloves, his watch, his fedora. And then he reached up to his face.

She blinked.

He slowly peeled off a bald cap from his head, revealing thick, lush obsidian hair that fell over his eyes.

His beard and sideburn extensions were next.

Off. Just like the brown contacts he was now tugging out, revealing a pair of icy blue eyes that held her captive.

He peeled off the fake scar over his brow, then shrugged off the thick overcoat that had added more bulk to his frame.

Piece by piece, Maeve watched in silent horror as Jonathan Riley, the arms dealer her father had just married her off to, transformed into a completely different man.

A man so strikingly and devastatingly beautiful that she almost tripped over her own feet in fear.

“Who―” she breathed, stepping back further. “Who the hell are you?”

He looked at her fully now, stripped of pretense and disguises. His voice, when it came, was different. Deeper. A thick, Russian-accented English that set off all the alarms in her head.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice loud. “I fucking see that.”

He took another step forward, and she shot out both of her hands as if she could stop him.

Russian . He was Russian. Her father hated the Russians.

The Irish and Russian were at odds with each other.

If she thought she wasn’t safe in the hands of Jonathan Riley, then this man―this strange Russian man that had successfully disguised himself as something different, that her father had unknowingly married her off to―was going to do worse.

Her stomach turned cold. “You’re not American.”

He tilted his head. “I’m not.”

“I’m not your father’s ally,” he continued. “I’m not loyal to his business either. I actually want him dead.”

The knot in Maeve’s throat threatened to spill out of her lips. It was becoming harder to breathe.

“Who,” she repeated slowly, “are you?”

“Fedya,” he responded, his eyes running from her head to her toes and back. His eyes were so scarily blue, so hypnotizingly blue. She was never interested in actually observing his features when he was Jonathan, but looking at him now made her realize just how much taller than her he was.

He towered over her easily, and as a tall woman herself, that was no small feat.

He had to be at least six inches taller than her, and she was five feet eleven.

He was strong too, even without the bulk of his overcoat.

He wore a black dress shirt and black slacks, which clung to the muscles of his body like a second skin.

And his hair―his hair was the thickest thing she’d ever seen, the darkest shade of hair she’d ever laid her eyes on.

He was distractingly handsome―a sharp contrast to the bald man who had driven her here.

“Fedya Nikolai,” he continued, and her heart dropped at the mention of his last name.

Nikolai.

As disinterested as she was in her father’s business, in the bloodstained dealings of the mafia, Maeve wasn’t na?ve. She knew the Nikolai Bratva. Everyone in the underworld did.

They were the apex predators of organized crime.

Ruthless yet disciplined. Unmovable. Untouchable.

They were a large family that didn’t need to announce themselves.

Their power was always felt, whispered behind closed doors, in the vanishings, in the massacres no one claimed but everyone knew were theirs.

Maeve remembered the name well because her uncle had dared to cross them, and her father had done nothing to protect him. They found him two weeks later, floating in a river. No hands, no tongue, no eyes, and a message carved into his chest in Cyrillic: “We do not forget.”

That was the Nikolai Bratva.

And now, one of them had married her.

He stepped closer, and as much as Maeve wanted to look strong, her survival instincts backed her up, but he only stopped once they were an arm’s length apart.

“I’m also the man who will kill you if you tell Cormac who I really am.”