Page 22 of Thorns of Love

“Russia.”

I attempted to pull away from him but he wouldn’t have it. “Russia?” I hissed, pissed he’d bring me here. I hated winters in Russia. I hated the bitter cold. Period. And this guy brought mehere.

This had to be a nightmare. I fell asleep with bliss in my bones and soul and woke up in the freeze your ass off motherland. This was what happened when you played with the wrong person. You woke up married and thoroughly fucked in Russia, better yet freezing hell. Chained to the devil.

Jesus Christ!

“This is your idea of a honeymoon?” I shook my head. “I fucking hate Russia. Especially in winter.”

He didn’t pay attention to my protest as he descended the stairs towards a Land Rover waiting for us.

“You were born in Russia.”

“Yes, but I grew up in New Orleans. Warm climate.” A shiver rolled through me. I hated the cold and in my book high forties was too cold. It was in the negatives here, for Pete’s sake. “I demand you take us back. I can deal with California. But not Russia.”

He ignored me as he continued towards the car.

“Konstantin!” I protested. “I’m serious, take us back to the States. Or Fiji. Anywhere, just not this frozen tundra.”

The door to the back of the Land Rover was already opened by the time he reached it and he slid into the seat, sitting me on his lap. I went to slide off his lap, but his grip on me tightened.

“No.”

“I’m not a kid,” I muttered under my breath as two of his men got in the front seat. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Thank fuck you’re not a kid,” he responded wryly. “But you’re my wife, and I want you close to me.”

I rolled my eyes but kept my mouth shut for the rest of the drive. If there was one thing I learned growing up with my brothers was never argue and dispute the head of the family in front of his men.

So I focused on the landscape. Or lack of it.

The white powder stretched on and on for miles. Illias didn’t say a word during the ride through the backroads, keeping his attention on his phone. His men kept their postures stiff and their gazes trained forward, although I caught Nikita’s eyes flicker to the rearview mirror once or twice, but he’d immediately trained them forward.

My brows furrowed. I tried to spot any kind of landmark that would give me an idea of where exactly in Russia we were, but there were none. At one point, we passed a stone wall with a tall iron fence on top of it with a metal gate that slid open with a loud creak. The car slowed down and I thought we were home.

Home.

It felt strange saying that word in a foreign country. Unlike Vasili and Sasha, I never considered Russia my home. Even Alexei spent more time in Russia, but his hatred of the country matched mine.

Was it right?

I didn’t know. But I associated my home with happiness and I was never particularly happy in Russia. In New Orleans, I was very happy. I loved the people. I loved the cuisine. I loved my brothers with me there. Papa was rarely there with us when I was a little girl, always chasing after Marietta Taylor, his lost mistress. Isabella’s mother.

Yes, our family was complicated.

My attention returned to the white landscape. It felt like forever until the car slowed to a halt outside a large mansion. No, not a mansion. A freaking honest-to-God castle.

My mouth parted as I stared at it. I’d seen my share of luxury, but I swore I hadn’t seen anything likethisbefore. It looked like one of those luxurious palaces from the eighteenth century that belonged to the Russian imperial family. The Romanovs and their fall in the early twentieth century was known to every girl of Russian heritage. I was no exception.

“You live here?” I asked, my voice awed.

“I have a place closer to the city, but this is safer,” he remarked. I tilted my head and shifted my body so I could see his face.

“Are we not safe?”

“Moya luna, we are never too safe.”

“You think the Yakuza will still attempt something?” I questioned. I had a lot more to lose now. We both did. It wasn’t just about my life anymore. It’s about the baby’s life too.