Page 9 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

She didn’t speak as we walked across the blades of grass surrounding the estate in Lake Forest. The mansion situated at the center had a modern feel to it, with its transparent glass walls and outdoor pool.

It also had a wrought-iron gate, resembling the home I had grown up in.

It reminded me of a cage, and I hated it.

And my dislike for the house didn’t just come from its exterior outlook; there was also a familiar sound that echoed in the distance, sharp and haunting: the mournful wailing of a foghorn.

I had always hated that sound as a child. It reminded me of death itself—a foreboding feeling that didn’t sit well with me.

“As you can see, this mansion has been designed for both luxury and effortless entertainment,” the agent, a man in his mid-twenties, stated, leading us toward the building with pride on his face.

He then continued to talk about how this house was the best in the area and on the market, explaining that its backdoor view didn’t just overlook a lake but also the nature surrounding the estate.

I took a quick look at Arlette. She was focused on the agent and, surprisingly, she seemed impressed.

Upon detecting our presence at the front door—which was made of tampered glass—the door automatically slid open.

“You don’t have to push buttons. Your fingerprint is all it needs,” the agent chimed with a goofy smile, raising his thumbs to us.

He stepped inside the house and gave us a tour.

The mansion featured an aesthetic blend of modern architecture and eco-friendly design.

The furniture combined obsidian black with deep forest green, and flowerpots were placed throughout nearly every area of the ground floor, which I found disturbing because everything seemed to be teeming with life.

I was used to everything being shrouded in an eerie darkness, unlike what was happening in this house.

And true to the agent’s words, a lush field and a lake could be seen from the backyard terrace, filling the place with serenity.

Arlette seemed excited with each thing he showed us, her eyes gleaming each time, and it made me wonder if she had spent her whole life locked in a cage, contrary to what I had thought about her.

I had heard she helped a lot in her father’s business, so I imagined she traveled frequently, yet she gazed at the house longingly, savoring every single thing the agent showed us.

Like a painting of a pine forest hanging on the walls.

She had stared at it for minutes, and I swore I saw her tear up.

It wasn’t that I outright hated the house—it served its purpose—but the estate was too close to one of the Kamarovs’ properties, where I had spent my entire childhood.

Besides, the wailing foghorn and the tranquility of the environment threw me off completely.

I was used to the sound of engines revving on the highway—to the blaring music from speakers around me—and not an eerie peacefulness.

We were just about to check the deeper levels of the building when the agent’s phone suddenly rang.

His features contorted in apology as he muttered that the call was important, then he walked out of the building, leaving Arlette and me in an awkward silence.

I tried to ignore her presence as I repeatedly glanced at my pocket watch.

“It’s not bad. I like it,” Arlette said after a while, and I could feel her gaze burning through my head. She stood behind me—though too far behind, like she was afraid I’d pull something crazy if she got too close.

She was wizening. But at the same time, I was surprised that she had actually spoken, and I didn’t realize how long I had been waiting for her to say something until her soft voice pierced the air and made my chest constrict uncomfortably.

“Well,” she prodded, now stepping in line beside me, “do you like it?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s not bad,” I said. “But it could be better. I’ll let Matvey know so he can give us other options.”

I wasn’t trying to be a dick, but I really didn’t feel comfortable with the house. Besides, Joaquin was a smart man. If the goal was to hide in plain sight from him, I figured hiding out just a stone’s throw from one of the Kamarov estates wasn’t too smart an idea.

But if Matvey insisted that we get the house, then we would.

Arlette scoffed at my words, muttering about how insufferable I was before heading down the stairs to the wine cellar.

I watched her as she pushed open the cellar’s metal door with a grunt, swearing under my breath.

The room was dim, cold, and had a musty smell hanging in the air like mist. The walls were made of stone and lined with dusty vintage bottles on racks.

The sound of dripping water at the edge of the room made Arlette—who now fully stepped inside—shudder and hug herself from the cold coming from the room.

I stepped into the room as well, folding my arms and watching her walk around casually, opening the refrigerator whose lights further brightened the space. When I pushed off the wall for a better look at the cellar, the metallic door behind me slammed shut, the bang causing Arlette to flinch.

I sharply turned, my face hardening as I realized we had just been locked in. I tried pushing against the door and kicking it open, but it wouldn't budge no matter how hard I tried. The sound of metal clanging only echoed through the building.

Being trapped in this room brought back suffocating memories. I leaned my back against the stone walls, taking in a sharp breath.

It was like I was back to being caged in that room—the acrid stench of burning and rotting flesh filling my nostrils.

“Great,” Arlette complained as I turned, running my hand through my hair and trying to calm myself, while she flailed her hands dramatically in the air. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t brought any cigarettes with me. I could feel my insides burning up.

“I can’t believe I’ve been locked in here with you,” I heard Arlette mutter amid the internal battle I was fighting, and my eyes snapped to hers.

“With me?” I deadpanned, feeling myself get annoyed by her words as I pointed a finger at her face. “You’re the one who swung the door open like you owned the damn place.”

Arlette scoffed and placed a hand on her hip. Under the dim lighting of the room, she looked captivating—like a temptress, even like a witch —while I had to keep myself steady as my head spun.

I tried to focus on other things—like her scent that tickled my nose intoxicatingly—but the more I did, the more my emotions sank, pounding against my chest.

Maybe it was the room, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything—or find a way to get us out of here—and since we were in the building’s basement, our cellphones were jammed, so I couldn’t exactly call the agent.

Now I was stuck with this brat in a room that felt like it would swallow me up. I briefly closed my eyes, annoyed.

“Are you always like this?” she muttered, a dash of irritation in her voice, and my eyes snapped open to meet hers in the dimness of the room.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarled at her, my voice low as my pulse quickened. I wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. My self-control was at the verge of breaking, and I knew if she kept talking, I might be forced to actually kill her this time.

So I repeated my words to her one last time, staring at her confused face. “Your voice irritates me, so just shut up until help comes.”

“Or what, Rafael?” She stepped closer to me, her face bright red and her chin jutted out in anger.

“Ohh, I know.” She laughed. “You’re going to point a gun at me again? What’s going to happen if I don’t—”

I suddenly pressed her against the wall by the door as I put both her hands above her head, my chest heaving as I looked into her eyes, which widened in surprise.

Control, Rafael. Control yourself.

But I couldn’t—not with my system igniting. I needed some kind of release. But at the same time, I needed consent— consent that she was feeling the same ache I was feeling. The same irritating pull that overpowered all those feelings I was experiencing.

Our heavy breathing synchronized as my eyes searched hers. Then, for a moment, her eyes drifted to my lips, and she gulped hard, her green eyes darkening with lust.

“Let me—”

I crashed my lips onto hers just as I let go of her hands, and she grabbed the hem of my shirt. The kiss was intense as our tongues battled. She tasted like vanilla, and it drove me crazy. I wanted her. Every part of me burned for her—like a drug I couldn’t resist.

I pressed my body against hers as she moaned underneath me, her hands gripping onto my clothes while my hands roamed her body—her soft and succulent skin burning underneath my touch.

Our saliva danced together as I pushed my tongue deeper into her mouth, slipping my hands underneath the lace of her bra. She suddenly jerked against me, pushing me hard, and I immediately pulled away from the kiss, confusion clear on my face. We both gasped heavily.

Her face was flushed, her lips full, and she avoided making eye contact, her gaze staying fixed on the ground.

I knew she felt it. She burned for me just as much as I did for her, and I could only laugh at myself for how stupid everything was.

And then, before either of us could speak, the cellar door clicked open, revealing the agent who began to apologize.

But I didn’t bother listening to his bullshit as I walked past her.

I thought kissing her would finally satisfy what I was feeling, but I was damn wrong—and fucked.

The Bratva didn’t seem to matter anymore. Neither did the wedding, nor the fact that we were both targets of Joaquin Saavedra.