Page 14 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

Ever since my mother’s death, I’ve been constantly plagued by nightmares—the type that stripped me clean of all my emotional defenses, reducing me to nothing more than a crybaby.

Dad had always claimed I wasn’t there when she died, but then how could he explain the shrilling screams that filled my dreams on some nights, or the sight of my mother’s neck being sliced open with blood gurgling out while she reached out for help from a wrecked car?

I could also always see men with blurred faces looming over her, their laughter echoing into the air.

It didn’t make sense to me that I would dream of something I wasn’t there to witness, and part of me knew Dad lied about Mom’s death. It wasn’t just an accident—it was an orchestrated one. One where she was killed right in front of me.

But I could never completely see it all, and part of me just wished it was all a dream—a dream my subconscious created to explain my mother’s death, since I had always sought some kind of answers.

And for the first time in my life, I slept peacefully after seeing so much more gore in my dreams.

I could still feel his warmth as I lay on the pink sheets of my bed, my hands spread out, reaching for the spot where he had been beside me. He had been here, cradling me like a baby until I fell asleep.

This was the same man I could’ve sworn was no better than the devil himself. It was hard reading him. I thought I was good at unraveling people at a glance, but in some ways, I was wrong about Rafael.

I wasn’t so sure who he was anymore or why he made me feel things. But at the same time, I figured that his comforting me could be another tactic of his to get me to obey him.

Whatever it was he was doing, he was confusing me—and I hated myself for being so vulnerable to him.

Morning sunlight seeped in through the dark blinds of my room, reminding me that it was very much morning.

I had woken up a few hours after Rafael had supposedly left my room, and when I went in search of him, I realized he wasn’t home, which I found hypocritical of him, considering he said we were on a honeymoon lockdown for at least two weeks.

A daring part of me thought about leaving for a while, since Eleanor was still very much in Chicago, shown by the many pictures she sent of herself exploring the city with her boyfriend. But then an uneasy feeling made my insides tremble.

If Joaquin Saavedra was truly responsible for Father’s murder, then I wasn’t safe at all.

The two of them were like the closest thing to friends in a world full of rivals.

I could even swear they were closer than Dad said he was with the Bratva.

But everything changed when Rafael revealed he had masterminded the explosion.

It made me scared and paranoid—and that was enough to make me obey.

The room—once a gilded cage of luxury, with a sparkling chandelier hanging above me, modern artworks, and Chinese antiques carefully arranged on my dressing table—now looked beautiful, especially after last night’s events.

I carefully swung my legs off the bed, pulling the velvety blinds of my room aside to let the sun’s warmth caress my body.

For the first time in a while, I felt comfortable in a home, even though that home was akin to a prison. It was still much better than living under my father’s roof.

I sighed.

I didn’t have much planned for the day, but ever since Dad’s death, I had been working from home as the branch manager for Chicago.

I knew it was only a matter of time before I got calls from the board of directors about who would step in as the new director and CEO of Father’s business.

But then again, I wondered why I still hadn’t received any calls.

Though a tiny voice in my head knew it had something to do with the Bratva.

They didn’t just marry me into their family for loyalty and protection—there was something in it for them, and I had come to accept that the chances of inheriting Father’s company might no longer be mine.

The day went smoothly, as I spent most of it working on my laptop and constantly drinking myself to a stupor with coffee.

By evening, still dressed only in my robe, I decided I could at least cook dinner for Rafael since we didn’t have any cooks yet.

My phone buzzed on the marbled kitchen island while I prepared my recipes for a light meal.

Lara.

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. We were once the best of friends, and I could’ve sworn we still were, but after her whole relationship with Matvey, things between us became a bit stifled.

We naturally grew apart—not physically, but mentally and emotionally.

But still, my face lit up as her caller ID flashed across my screen.

“Hey, Lara. What’s up?” I feigned a breezy laugh, my hands gripping the pan in my hands. I was nervous, and I didn’t even know why. This was my friend. She was at Dad’s funeral and even my wedding.

But why did it feel like I was talking to some stranger?

“I’m good, Ari. How’s the honeymoon coming along?” A pause followed, and then she said, “I know it must be hard for you—you know, with your dad’s death and getting married into this whole Bratva bullshit.”

She laughed, but it was full of pity for me.

My hands shook, and my breath caught in my throat as an unfamiliar feeling gripped my chest.

I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to tell her that things weren’t fine. I was scared out of my mind. I didn’t know who to trust anymore.

And what else?

Yeah, apparently, my father knocked up some lady a few years after he had me. He cheated on my mother—and now he had a whole other kid.

But hell, I wasn’t going to say all that shit, so I lied.

“It’s really not as bad as I thought it’d be.” I bit my bottom lip hard, drawing blood. “I’m fine, Lara.”

She sighed in relief. “I’m glad to hear that, Ari,” she said. “I miss you, and I miss us. These Bratva men can be…a lot. But I want you to know that you’ll get through it all, okay?”

My lips quivered, and just when I wanted to confess that I truly wasn’t okay, a voice called out to Lara in the background.

My weight shifted from my foot to the kitchen counter, my eyelids briefly shutting as Lara’s voice chimed in, apologizing, “I gotta go, Ari. We’ll talk later, okay?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, and then the line went dead.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I then drew a sharp breath, trying to calm my nerves.

I repeated the words like a mantra, willing myself to be okay.

I’m fine. I’m fine.

I covered my face with my palms, then slammed my phone hard against the island, pushing back my conversation with Lara as I started grabbing things from the transparent glass refrigerator, annoyed.

Spinach, garlic, thyme. I need some thyme.

Cooking, for me, was always an escape. As an heiress—and back at Father’s place—I wasn’t allowed to do the simplest of chores.

No cooking, no cleaning. And if I weren’t born in the 21st century, I was pretty sure I’d have had maids cleaning up after me, too.

Eleanor was the one who taught me to cook in college. She wasn’t the best cook, but as I seasoned my vegetables, I couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my face as memories of our time together flooded my mind.

But unfortunately, that life was never coming back.

Sighing in acceptance, I turned around to grab an avocado from the refrigerator—only for my heart to skip a beat when I looked up and saw Rafael, dressed as handsome as ever in a grey suit layered with a fancy fur coat.

He leaned against one of the sofas in the living room, assessing me like a predator stalking its prey.

I didn’t even hear him come in—and it wasn’t because I wasn’t paying attention. Rafael was just dangerously stealthy like that.

“You were supposed to scream,” he mused, his voice soft and smooth like silk as he slowly approached me.

Unlike before, his movements were now measured—each step deliberate, like he didn’t want to scare me away.

“How do you do that?” I asked, my hands flying to my pounding chest as I gazed into his dark eyes.

Now, just a few feet away from me, I could clearly see his features up close. Stubble was growing beneath his sharp jawline, and I could see a faint, jagged scar on his cheekbone.

My hand reached out to trace it. It looked like it had been painful, but it gave him a rugged look that made him even more handsome.

He grabbed my hand before it could reach his face, but rather than being angry that I tried to touch him, he seemed a bit apologetic.

“It comes with experience,” he said, his voice gruff—and I wasn’t sure if his reply was to the question I asked or an answer to the scar on his face.

He gently put my hands down, his attention shifting to what I had cooking.

“I didn’t know you cooked. You sure you’re actually an heiress?”

I laughed softly, itching the back of my neck. “Dad never let me cook, but I gained some experience in college.”

He nodded, his hands still holding onto mine the entire time. This was the first time we had talked this long without losing our tempers at each other.

It felt nice—but that didn’t mean I suddenly liked him.

And then I remembered last night, and heat crept onto my face in embarrassment.

“Look, about yesterday,” I started, shaking my head. “I was being a baby. I just had a silly nightmare and—”

“It wasn’t a silly nightmare,” he assured me, now returning his gaze to me. Our eyes locked intensely. “I’ve never seen you cry, kroshka . So I know it wasn’t just some silly nightmare.”

The word kroshka rolled off his tongue in his thick Russian accent. I had always hated it when he called me that. It felt like he was being condescending—like I was some pet.

But now I wanted to hear more. His voice carried emotion every time he said it. His true self shone through.

“It was about my mom,” I admitted to him, my eyes shifting from his to the floor. “She died when I was a kid, and…Dad said it was an accident. I wasn’t there, he claimed….”