Page 20 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“We force a marriage. Eleanor becomes your wife, and suddenly William Beaumont looks like the kind of man who abandons his daughter to the Bratva. His reputation, his political connections, his carefully constructed image of being a family man…all of it goes to shit.”

“That’s….” I paused, considering. “Actually fucking brilliant. He’ll be caught between protecting his reputation and continuing to deny his own daughter. Either choice destroys him.”

“Exactly.”

“But there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“The girl has to agree to marry me. And somehow, I don’t think she’s going to be thrilled about the idea.”

I thought about Eleanor’s eyes when she’d called me a monster. The fire in her voice when she’d told me my plan wouldn’t work. The way she’d looked small and defiant and completely fucking fearless in that elegant prison I’d built for her.

“She’ll agree,” he said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re going to give her a choice. Marriage, or you kill her father yourself and let the pieces fall where they may.”

I whistled low. “That’s cold.”

Maybe it was cold. Maybe it was cruel, but it was smart. William Beaumont had made this personal when he’d set up that ambush in Prague. When he’d gotten my men killed and nearly put me in the ground.

He wanted to play games? Fine. I’d show him what a real fucking game looked like.

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Lev called after me.

“To think.”

***

I headed to Eleanor’s…prison the next day. The elevator ride down to the basement felt longer than usual. Each floor that passed gave me more time to think about what I was about to do. About what I was about to ask of her.

Eleanor was sitting on the bed when I entered, wearing one of Anya’s hoodies and a pair of shorts that should have been illegal. The fabric of the hoodie hung loose, but the way she sat made it shift, revealing just enough to pull my eyes where they shouldn’t go. Her hair was clean, pulled back in that high ponytail that always made my fingers itch to wrap around it and hold her still. She looked up when I walked in, those hazel eyes locking on mine with the kind of direct challenge most people were too smart to give me.

“Let me guess,” she said, closing the book she had been reading. “You saw the news.”

“I did.”

“So now you know I was right. Daddy dearest doesn’t give a shit about his little girl. Your plan is fucked, and you’re stuck with a hostage who’s worth exactly nothing to anyone.”

“Not nothing,” I said, moving closer to the bed. “You are worth something to me.”

She tensed, and I saw the subtle shift in her posture as she read danger in my voice. Smart girl.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I have a new plan. One that does not require your father’s cooperation.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough to smell her shampoo. Clean, warm, something faintly sweet. Close enough to see the pulse beating fast in her throat. My thigh brushed against the edge of hers when she shifted, and I felt my fingers curl against my knee, the urge to touch her building like a slow burn under my skin.

“You are going to marry me, Eleanor.”

She went completely still. Not frozen with fear, but with the kind of shock that comes just before explosive anger.

“Excuse me?”