Chained Fate (Molotov Betrothal #3)

Chapter 1

Alina

The pilot’s announcement that our plane is starting its descent into Geneva cuts through the heavy fog of sleep engulfing me.

I try to open my eyes, but they feel swollen and gritty, my lids all but glued shut.

I must’ve fallen asleep again while crying in Alexei’s embrace.

I give up and keep my eyes closed. My head is throbbing anew, and my nausea is returning.

I don’t know if the latter is from my early pregnancy or the tumor eating my brain, and I don’t particularly care.

It’s also possible my stomach is revolting from the knowledge of what awaits me when we land.

Awake brain surgery.

Chemo.

Radiation.

Loss of our baby.

For some reason, the last one is the hardest to come to terms with. If I proceed with the surgery and the treatment, the tiny embryo inside me—which I’m convinced is a girl—won’t survive. But if I don’t, I won’t survive, and Alexei won’t allow that.

I want to cry all over again.

I’m also pathetically, embarrassingly grateful that he seems determined to see this through with me.

I don’t know how long his resolve will last once he sees me truly sick, but a part of me wants to believe him, to trust him.

Not that I have a choice. He refuses to let me go home to my brothers…

and some perverse part of me is grateful for that too.

A warm, heavy hand lands on my bare arm and strokes it softly. I swallow the burning knot in my throat and force open my eyes to meet my new husband’s intense, dark gaze.

Alexei’s face is still drawn tight, still tired. I wonder if he’s gotten any sleep since we left the yacht. Somehow, I doubt it.

The urge to touch him, to soothe him, wells up again.

It’s insidious, the way the cruel, sardonic curve of his mouth now seems to hold a promise of tenderness, how his hard, mercilessly sculpted features are becoming so achingly familiar to me.

Despite everything, my skin tingles at his touch, my heartbeat picking up pace at his proximity, and I know that if he were to lean down and press his lips to mine, the scorching heat of our connection would burn away all reason, all reality.

But he won’t do that. Because we’re landing soon and going straight to the clinic, where the doctors will cut open my skull and excise as much of the tumor as they can.

The thought is like a wet rag slapped against my face.

I swallow against another surge of nausea and sit up. “Where are my clothes?”

I was in a dress before embarking on our submarine journey that somehow ended with us on this private jet, but right now, I’m wearing only his black T-shirt that’s hugely oversized on me.

“I undressed you so you’d be more comfortable sleeping,” Alexei says, standing up.

He walks over to a small door I didn’t notice before and opens it, revealing a tiny closet that holds only the dress and the underwear I was wearing.

His expression is apologetic as he turns to me.

“I didn’t think to grab any clean clothes for either of us. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” I’m guessing he had his hands full, figuring out how to get us here from the other side of the planet and all—though I do wish I had my makeup at the very least. I can feel how puffy my eyes are, and I’m sure I look terrible.

And the worst hasn’t even started.

Ugh. I wish I could turn off that voice in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like my mom’s. Who cares what I look like when I’m fucking dying? I need to focus on what truly matters, not something as shallow as whether I’ll lose my hair all at once or in patches.

Alexei returns to the bed, carrying my underwear and the dress.

Wordlessly, he hands them to me, and I flush, realizing he expects me to change right here, in front of him.

It’s not an illogical expectation, given that he’s my husband whose seed is still crusted on my thighs.

But my face burns regardless as I snatch the clothes from him and jump off the bed, ignoring the wave of nausea accompanying the sudden motion.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter as I beeline for the bathroom.

I need a shower at the very least.

“You don’t have much time,” Alexei calls after me. “We’re landing in seventeen minutes.”

“Got it!” Swiftly, I strip off his shirt and hop in the small shower stall. There’s no time to wash and blow-dry my hair, so I put it up in a lopsided ballerina bun and focus on rinsing off all traces of our sexfest.

When I’m done, I dry myself, dress in the clothes I was wearing, and pull my hair into a more artful messy bun.

As expected, my face is a disaster, all pale, blotchy skin and puffy eyes, but I doubt the doctors will care.

And if Alexei doesn’t like what he sees…

oh, well. The sooner he realizes he’s made a mistake sticking by me, the better.

Alexei is waiting impatiently when I emerge. “We need to take our seats. Let’s go.”

Before I can reply, he shepherds me into the main cabin of the plane. It’s spacious and luxurious, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. Like my family, the Leonovs are obscenely rich and have never shied away from using their wealth.

Ruslan, Alexei’s younger brother, looks up from his laptop when we take our seats next to him. His storm-gray eyes are uncharacteristically gentle as he meets my gaze. “Hey,” he says softly. “How are you doing?”

A couple of days ago, I would’ve snapped back with something sarcastic along the lines of, “How do you think?” But I don’t have the energy for belligerence, and there’s something so genuine in the concern on his hard features that my chest pinches with unwelcome emotion.

“I’m okay,” I mumble and focus on buckling myself in so I don’t do something embarrassing, like start crying again. I know Ruslan doesn’t truly care about me—he probably hates me, in fact—but he does care about his brother and what my diagnosis means for him… and illogically, so do I.

Alexei shouldn’t have manipulated our families into betrothing us when I was fifteen.

He shouldn’t have stalked me for a decade or stormed my brother’s Idaho compound to force me into marriage.

And he certainly shouldn’t have impregnated me against my will.

But he has done all those things, and it was because he wanted me.

Some fantasy version of me, I’m still convinced of that, but regardless, as much as I resent him for everything he’s done, I also can’t help but empathize.

It must be terrible to want something so badly and then to finally acquire it, only to have it snatched away from you by a cruel whim of fate… almost as terrible as not wanting something, having it forced upon you, and belatedly realizing you’d do anything to keep it.

My hand unconsciously covers my stomach, and I look up to find Ruslan staring at it.

Flushing again, I move my hand away and fix my gaze on the circular window.

I’m sure Alexei’s brother is fully informed of the situation, but I still don’t feel right broadcasting my barely-there pregnancy, especially given where it’s heading.

Outside, the thick cloud cover is receding to reveal the postcard-pretty Lake Geneva and the peaks of the snowy Alps. Normally, I’d enjoy the view, but now, I just close my eyes and listen to the changing hum of the engines as our descent steepens.

A big male hand covers mine on the armrest, and I know without looking that it’s Alexei lending me his warmth and strength.

The sucky part is, I need it. His touch chases away some of the cold dread suffocating me, and a part of me wishes we were back on the yacht, just us and the endless ocean, back in the good old days when he was my biggest enemy, my worst fear.

I keep my eyes closed as I hear the screeching rumble of the wheels emerging from the belly of the jet and feel a soft jolt as said wheels make contact with the runway.

This is it.

We have arrived.

Within minutes, we disembark at a small private airport, where a luxury electric SUV is waiting for us. Alexei helps me into the back seat while Ruslan goes to sit up front with the driver, and then we’re on our way, the car’s smooth, soundless ride perversely aggravating.

I want jolts and bumps, the roar of a motor, anything to distract me from where we’re going and what’s going to happen there.

As if reading my mind, Alexei lays a hand on my thigh. “It’s going to be okay.” His voice is low and steady. “They won’t hurt you, I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” His dark gaze is unwavering as his eyes catch mine.

A tiny bit of tension drains out of me. I don’t know why that promise makes a difference, but it does.

I still don’t want to be his wife, still resent him for binding us together against my will, but there’s something perversely reassuring in knowing that he still wants me, that he’s not afraid to face this horror with me.

He keeps his hand on my leg for the rest of the ride, and I don’t pull away.

To distract myself from what’s coming, I keep my gaze trained on his hand, studying the imperfect ovals of his short, bluntly filed nails, the small scars on the edges of his callused fingers, the veins underneath his darkly tanned skin.

It’s a strong, rough hand, one capable of terrifying brutality… and even more terrifying tenderness.

Finally, we’re there, parking in front of a pretty four-story building that looks like it was built a few centuries ago.

I blink and finally look around. I’ve been to Geneva more than once, and though I don’t know exactly where we are, the cobblestone streets and the presence of tourists tells me we’re not far from the popular Old Town area.

It’s not where I would’ve expected a cutting-edge medical facility to be located, but what do I know? It’s a nice area, that’s for sure.

Alexei helps me out of the car as though I were already disabled, but I don’t mind.

Nor do I mind his hand on my lower back, its weight and warmth gently supportive.

My knees feel weak and shaky, and my heart beats much too fast as we enter the building—which looks much more modern on the inside, with the reception area decorated in soothing blue-gray hues.

Live plants in clay pots line the reception counter, adding a touch of life and warmth to the cool interior, as does a lush, six-foot-tall potted cane to the right of the reception desk.

Before we can approach the receptionist, a pretty blonde who looks to be in her late teens, the doors behind her swing open, and two middle-aged men in white coats emerge. I swallow hard as they approach us with broad, welcoming smiles.

“Mr. and Mrs. Leonov,” the shorter one says in lightly accented British English. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Dr. Ingels, and this is my colleague, Dr. Fasseau. We work with Dr. Kressler. Dr. Fasseau will perform the operation, and I will assist him with it.”

Alexei nods, his jaw tight. “Let’s get on with it.”

The doctors look taken aback. Like most Western Europeans, they’re used to at least a modicum of polite chitchat. Alexei is clearly not in the mood to indulge them, and neither am I. They regroup quickly, however.

“Please, follow us,” Fasseau says. “We’ll start by running a few more tests, beginning with a more thorough MRI.”

Great. Another hour with all the clanking and beeping noises—just what my throbbing head needs.

But it would be foolish to object. Since they’re going to be cutting into my brain, I want them to be very sure about what they’re doing.

And there’s a tiny part of me that’s still hoping that maybe, just maybe, I was misdiagnosed.

That the supposed tumor was the result of a faulty MRI machine on the submarine—it was a portable one, after all.

Alexei doesn’t say anything either. Silently, we follow the two doctors down a hallway and to a small, cozy room, one wall of which is occupied by two large lockers.

“You can change here,” Ingels says. “You can find a dressing gown and slippers in either of the lockers. Please be sure to remove all jewelry and anything that may contain metal. You don’t have a pacemaker or any implanted devices, correct?”

“Correct,” I say.

“Good,” Fasseau says. “We’ll have you fill out a more detailed form before the test begins, but for now, please go ahead and change. Oh, and if you need to use the bathroom, now would be a good time, as the scan will take at least an hour and a half.”

I wince, my headache worsening at the mere thought of it. But there’s nothing to be done, so I just wait for the doctors to depart, which they do promptly. Alexei stays, however, his expression dark and concerned as he steps up to me.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, laying his hand on my upper arm. “If you want to rest for a few minutes before—”

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. Well… not fine, but you know.”

“Yeah.” His face tightens, even as he gently rubs his palm up and down my arm. “I know.”

I stare up at him, the peculiar impulse to touch him returning. I want to kiss the hard, grim line of his lips and smooth the new lines of tension bracketing his mouth, to trace my knuckles over the uncompromising line of his jaw and run my fingertips over the rough, dark stubble on his cheeks.

Though by all rights, he’s still my adversary, it no longer feels like it. It feels like we’re a team, like we’re in this together… because even though I’m the one who’s sick, he’s suffering too.

I can see it, and it hurts me—and I don’t understand why.

The rhythm of his breathing alters, his dark eyes heating up. As always, he can sense the fatal weakness within me, the way I’m drawn to him against my will. And this time, it’s not purely physical, this urge that’s growing within me. It’s something deeper, more resonant… more dangerous.

I should run from it. I should fight it with all my might. But I can’t—if only because I’m saving all the fight in me for the upcoming battle for my life. Or at least that’s the excuse I’ll tell myself later, when I’m beating myself up for what I’m about to do.

For this.

I grip his face between my palms, rise up onto my tiptoes, and press my lips to his.