Arranged to Marry the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #4)

Prologue - Adrian

Sweat dotting his skin, Adrian Nikolai ducked his opponent's swing with a savage grin on his face. Another hit swung his way and he avoided it just as easily, thick strands of short, white-blonde hair sticking to his forehead.

Around him, the crowd roared their approval, but near the edge of the fighting pit, those who knew him just sighed and rolled their eyes. Even his own blue eyes gleamed with cold amusement.

"Get it over with," he could almost hear Kostya growl. But for the first time in weeks, Adrian finally had some time to enjoy himself, and nothing made his blood pump more than a good fight. Well, nothing except for sex.

Adrian slammed his elbow into his opponent's nose, and a fresh spray of blood dotted his bare torso, nearly blending in with his ink. The harsh black and red abstract designs covered half of his upper body, hiding scars he'd done his damnedest to forget, and broken only by newer scars he really couldn't give less of a shit about.

"Motherfucking Russian!" the other man roared, face mottling with rage as he ran at a laughing Adrian. " You broke my fucking nose ."

Ducking his terrible attempt, Adrian slammed his boot into the other man's gut and jumped back into position, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

It would cost nothing for him to win the round. He'd been playing with the other man for a good twenty minutes, and while it was clear his opponent was one wrong move from toppling over, Adrian could've gone another few hours without growing exhausted. That was the benefit of being the head of security and the first line of defense for the Nikolai Bratva.

He was the monster that everyone normally associated with his line of work.

Unlike his oldest brother, Mikhail, Adrian didn't care about being the Pakhan. As for his second oldest brother, Lev, Adrian wasn't jumping at every chance to get his hands on the business side of things. Nor was he like Ivan, the third oldest, the playboy. Well, up until he'd gotten married; now, he was just the party boy. The spy.

No. Adrian thrived on the darkest element of the criminal underworld. The blood rushes, and the blood spills. Mercenary. Hacker. Even thief a time or two when the job called for it. He'd done a fine job for himself, even hiding in plain sight when he needed to. So a little fight with a so-called champion boxer was nothing—not until Rhiannon Callaghan stepped out of the shadows and into his line of sight.

The world around him faded as he took in her appearance.

Dark hair spilled down her waist instead of in her normal braid, the slight curl at the end swaying against the background of her olive skin. She was wearing a crop top, a small black scrap of nothing that left her flat belly open for anyone to see… and that's all Adrian saw before a fist thudded against his jaw.

Black rage flickered through his veins. Because of the hit, he told himself, and not at all because his mark was in a fucking underground fight club in black yoga pants and a top that did nothing to hide her stunning, athletic body.

Snarling, Adrian pushed every single thought out of his head and slammed into the man who'd managed to get a hit—the first one that night, too.

His muscles bunched as he swung, a left hook to the stomach, an uppercut to the jaw. Over and over, too many combinations to count until the ref threw a bucket of water at him and told him to fuck off. The fight was done.

Leaving the man bleeding on the floor, Adrian left the fighting ring and walked toward the table in the back where his family was sitting: Kostya, Ilya, and his cousin Viktor. Only Viktor was a blood relation, and he, along with a few other cousins, had just joined their Chicago faction after the recent problems with the Irish.

Straight from Russia, the mean motherfucker only laughed at the irritation flickering across Adrian's face. "What did the fucker do?" Viktor sneered as Adrian slid into a chair nearby. "Fuck your ex?"

"Adrian doesn't date." Ilya snorted at that, a knowing gleam in her eyes even as she offered Adrian a drink. He didn't have to confirm to know she'd seen the Irish Princess walking around, too. Somehow, Ilya always knew what was going on around them. Sometimes, even before he did.

"Even if he did," Kostya interjected smoothly. "It's unlikely that he'd give a shit."

While both those points were true, Adrian wasn't in the mood to discuss girls. "Shut the fuck up," he ordered, reaching out to take the drink that Ilya offered him.

Work was starting early tonight, and he hadn't even had a chance to get rid of the tension he'd been feeling from his last shift.

Ignoring the roaring laughter of his three companions, Adrian's eyes swept the floors until they latched on to Rhiannon once more. Seemingly unaware that he was watching, she smiled tightly at something the ref said, fingers snapping a hairband off her wrist and pulling her hair into a tight knot.

What the fuck is she doing? He thought, his eyes narrowing.

Months of watching Rhiannon and her family had left Adrian with the knowledge that there wasn't much the youngest daughter could do without messing up. Her attempts at espionage were terrible at best—he'd caught her months ago in one of Lev's clubs and chased her off only to see her come back again a few nights later—and her job as publicity manager for her father's businesses seemed to be more of a joke than anything, considering her assistant did everything she was supposed to.

In all honesty, Adrian had already gone through everything there was about Rhiannon Callaghan and he'd found her lacking. Spoiled and missing the discipline her older brothers had in spades, the only part of her that she really did excel in was her stubbornness. But that only seemed to get her into trouble. In fact, it was almost a joke by now how many times her brothers or her father would drag her out of the messes she'd created. Hell, even he'd been tempted to step in a time or two. Not to rescue her, but just to question if she had one lick of common sense in that pretty head of hers.

Tonight, it seemed Adrian would bear witness to another of Rhiannon's great escapades, and he settled into his seat with a furrowed brow to see what she was planning.

What he found was beyond a fucking joke.

Tall and slim, the young girl hopped on the balls of her feet with a fighter's grace borne from her many years practicing martial arts. It wasn't the powerful, brutish moves he often moved with, and if she was any smarter, then she'd have learned to hide that as he had.

Power and experience only put a target on you, and if she was doing what he thought she was, then a target was the last thing she needed.

There were no rules in the Pits. Gender, weight, none of the classes that she'd normally have found at her expensive little fight school mattered out there.

It was pure brutality.

A showdown of wits and strength.

She'd be eaten alive.

And as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, Adrian wasn't fond of the idea.

"Good show?" Viktor teased, tipping his head in the direction of the ring.

Adrian grunted a response, and his cousin barked out a laugh. Fucking chatty, that one. He never knew when to shut the hell up.

"She's got a good set of legs on her," Viktor continued, ignoring the warning look that Ilya sent his way. "Think she's planning to compete?"

Ilya snorted, beer raised halfway to her lips. "She'd be an idiot to do that."

Even Ilya, one of Adrian's best fighters, refused to enter the rings, and she had no shame in telling anyone who asked her.

Sitting back against the booth seat, Adrian didn't bother to let them know that, if anyone was reckless enough to do that, it was Rhiannon Callaghan. For one, none of his family would really give a shit after they realized who she was. And two, Ilya already knew who he was watching and why his shoulders tensed as she stepped through the crowd to the middle of the floor.

The rest of his companions' conversation faded away as Adrian's eyes narrowed on his mark. Just a few months ago, Mikhail had been hesitant to put a bullet in any of the Callaghans' foreheads. There wasn't enough evidence to put the entirety of the blame on them for what had happened to Ivan's wife.

Looking at Rhiannon now, Adrian couldn't help but wonder if that would've been a mercy. At least then she wouldn't be beaten to death by the blocky man who joined her on the concrete floor, his head shaved and front teeth missing.

Her death would solve one problem, Adrian concluded, his thoughts merciless and casual, just like he'd trained himself to be.

The only time he hadn't been like that was as a child and recently, when Rhiannon fucking Callaghan crossed his fucking path. His problem.

Swallowing the last of his drink, Adrian slipped away from the booth, sticking to the shadows as he approached the ring.

Only once he was close enough to see the freckles dotting every bared piece of Rhiannon's skin did he stop. And there he watched her, out of sight but tenser than he should've been, as she started to circle her opponent. The look on her face was focused, but her dark eyes were tight with… grief?

Tilting his head, he observed her with a detached expression that belied the itch under his skin. An itch that said Rhiannon was going to end up dead that night, and this time, her family wasn't anywhere around to rescue her from her own ill-thought-out plans.

Bracing himself, Adrian didn't once look away as a fist landed on her beautiful face, and a knee was jabbed into her stomach.

It's only fair , he thought to himself, that she realizes the error of her ways.

The fight didn't last another five minutes as Rhiannon's opponent kicked and bit and hit her until she was blue and bloody and baring her teeth like a wolf. Twin streaks of tears ran down her cheeks as she knelt on the ground.

Get up , he thought, unable to shake the anger he felt seeing her on the brink of giving up. He'd always known she had demons she couldn't shake, but so did he and everyone else he knew. And while it didn't happen often, there was once or twice when the girl got into these depressive states.

Tear tracks, fighting, and booze. He'd seen her go through each stage, and he wouldn't have to follow her home that night to know that she'd end up in her bathtub with a bottle of chardonnay and whatever she pulled from the depths of her empty fridge. Always leftovers, never anything fresh. As if she didn't know how to look after herself beyond the bare basics.

Adrian shook his head. He'd seen enough. He turned to leave as the malicious contender approached, his mouth set in a thin line. But something stopped him. Movement. He looked back, and that's when Rhiannon rolled to her feet.

Quick as a bullet, she darted out of the way and then landed a well-placed, powerful kick to her opponent's stomach.

Winded, he bent over to catch his breath, and another spinning kick sent him tumbling to the floor.

Unconscious.

All in a matter of seconds. And that was grief hiding under the focused mien she'd put on; he could see it properly now that she was facing him.

Adrian's brows furrowed, but before he could question it, their eyes locked. Hers were dark and doe-like in appearance against his chilling blue.

Recognition flashed across her face, and the reckless girl arched an elegant eyebrow, daring him to do something about her presence in their territory.

A hand on his shoulder stole his attention, and Adrian's focus snapped to Kostya. "I'm heading home. Viktor's coming with me," his brother in all but blood spoke. "He's pissed as a skunk and causing shit with Ilya."

Nodding sharply, Adrian turned his gaze back to the ring just in time to see Rhiannon disappearing into the crowd, her arm gripped by one of her older brothers.

Alone without his team, Adrian had another drink, paid his tab, and then left. His silver Camaro sat in the underground parking of one of Lev's clubs, and he went to fetch it, relaxing in the seat just a moment. But a moment turned into a few hours as his exhaustion took hold.

When Adrian's blue eyes opened into narrowed slits, it was to find the sun rising across his car's bonnet and throwing white beams across his face.

Grumbling under his breath, he started his car and left the parking lot, fingers running through his hair. It was greasy from the previous night's fight. He needed a shower. Badly. But he didn't bother turning into his apartment as he raced across Chicago's streets, window open and fresh air flowing against his skin.

No, Adrian drove until he reached a set of apartments near the Chicago River, and there he waited until Rhiannon Callaghan stumbled out the front door.

Her hair was braided in a crown around her head, and she'd swapped the exercise wear for that black pencil skirt with a slit in the side. Her favorite, he'd come to learn. Or maybe just one of the few she owned. A silky emerald top completed the ensemble, along with a pair of stilettos that wobbled as she made her way toward a little red Maserati she'd bought to replace the BMW she'd totaled three weeks ago.

Makeup covered the bruises, but by the yawn and sunglasses, he'd been right in his assessment. She'd gotten pissed the second her brother left her apartment. He bet he'd find the evidence on his cameras if he looked.

Snorting, Adrian settled in to observe her for the rest of the day.

He'd placed a tracker on her car long ago, and when she left, he gave her twenty minutes before pulling out his tablet and following her.