2. Chapter 2
2
Konstantin
T his is not how I expected to find my bride.
Not hiding.
Not crying.
And certainly not sitting on the side of the street, barefoot, in a wedding dress, devouring a taco like it’s her last meal on Earth.
The scene is so fucking absurd I actually pause.
My men don’t.
The SUVs skid to a stop in front of the taco stall, tires biting into the asphalt.
A few people scatter. The vendor grips his spatula like he might have to use it as a weapon. Someone mutters “cartel” under their breath.
My men move first. Timur steps out immediately, his sharp gaze locking onto her.
Isabella.
Sitting on a plastic stool, eating a fucking taco.
For a moment, I don’t speak. I just watch her.
There’s salsa on her lip.
Irritation should be my first reaction—she ran. Made me chase her. Embarrassed me in a way no one dares to do.
But what I feel instead?
It’s something else—it’s entertaining.
I step out of the car.
The vendor looks between us like he’s reconsidering his entire life’s choices. Isabella stays very, very still, the last bite of her taco hovering near her mouth.
“Did you really run from our wedding just to eat tacos, Isabella?”
Her head lifts slowly.
Her blue eyes are wide, rimmed with the beginnings of tears she clearly doesn’t want to shed. Her lip trembles… just slightly. She blinks fast, like she can erase the evidence.
For a long moment, she just stares. Then, without breaking eye contact—
She shoves the rest of the taco into her mouth.
I stand there, watching her.
She chews. Swallows. Wipes her mouth on her wrist like a feral little creature in designer lace.
Then, very carefully, she says, “Firstly, I did run, but not from our wedding.” A pause. “Because technically, we still have an hour to go.”
My jaw tightens.
She tilts her chin higher, like she’s daring me to argue.
She’s sitting, but somehow, she still manages to look defiant, infuriating, and entirely too pleased with herself.
I drink her in, everything else fading to background noise, and for the first time in years, I am completely fucking speechless.
And she sees it.
Because she smirks.
“Secondly,” she continues, waving her hand like she’s conducting a board meeting, “you should really try this taco.”
She gestures toward the plate like it’s the most important issue at hand, flippantly dismissing the fact that she just ran from a multimillion-dollar wedding, humiliated me, and forced me to hunt her down through the streets of Los Angeles.
Her braceleted wrist flicks in the air, emphasizing her point. A single drop of salsa flicks off her fingers. Lands on my jacket.
I stare down at her. She stares up at me.
She does not breathe.
Her fingers twitch like she’s debating whether she should try to wipe it off or simply flee the country.
Then—very, very carefully—she licks her lips, swallows, and murmurs, “Are we about to fight?”
A slow, calculated silence stretches between us.
Then I crouch.
Not aggressively. Not rushed. Slow. Measured. The way a predator moves when there’s no doubt in its mind it’s already won.
She tenses. It’s not fear—I know fear. This is something else.
She’s anticipating.
I reach forward, ignoring the way she holds her breath, and take the last uneaten taco from her plate.
She gasps. A soft, stunned sound—like I just committed blasphemy.
“Hey—”
I take a bite.
A slow, deliberate bite.
Her mouth falls open.
“Did you just—?”
“Not bad,” I murmur, chewing. “Though I think you might be overselling it.”
Her outrage is immediate.
“Excuse me? This is the best taco in the city! It’s the best taco in the state!” She waves a hand at the vendor. “Tell him!”
The vendor says nothing. He is still gripping his spatula tightly.
I swallow. Lick the leftover spice from my bottom lip. Watch her eyes track the motion.
Then I lean in, voice dropping just enough for only her.
“You should be more careful, Isabella.”
She stills. “Of… what?”
I tap my jacket, right where the offending salsa stain sits.
“Making a mess. You never know what might need to be cleaned up after.”
Her throat bobs. Her fingers press into the hem of her dress, a tell she doesn’t realize she has.
Her breath is coming too fast.
I reach for the napkins on the counter. Take one. Hold it out to her.
She hesitates.
So I do it for her.
Slowly.
I drag the napkin along her wrist, wiping off the sauce she left behind when she cleaned her mouth earlier. The motion is casual. Intentional.
But her pulse jumps. I feel it beneath my fingers—racing, wild, traitorous.
“See?” My voice is quiet. Almost amused. “No more mess.”
Her breath shudders out.
I ball up the napkin, toss it aside, and straighten. My shadow falls over her completely, boxing her in.
“Now,” I say smoothly, sliding a hand into my jacket pocket. “Are you finished running?”
She squares her shoulders. Lifts her chin like she’s telling herself to be strong.
“I wasn’t running.”
I let the lie hang between us. She knows I don’t believe it.
She sighs. Deflates. Her fingers lift, tentative, hesitant—
Then she grabs the rest of the taco from my hand and takes a bite.
Her eyes hold mine the entire time.
I exhale a slow, measured breath through my nose. I have a wife with no self-preservation instincts.
My palm itches to grab her jaw, to press my thumb to the salsa at the corner of her mouth, and feel the way her lips part under my touch.
But I don’t.
I let her win this round.
Because I already know something she doesn’t.
She’ll learn exactly what it means to belong to me.
The ride back is silent.
She’s pressed against the door, as far from me as the leather seats allow. Like those few inches might magically transport her to another continent. As if a measurable distance could save her from a man who just tracked her down through Los Angeles traffic—which might actually be my most impressive feat to date.
I sit back, relaxed. Patient. One arm stretched along the back of the seat. Claiming the space between us. Probably looking like every cliché movie villain who’s just captured the heroine. All I need is a cat to stroke and a maniacal laugh.
Her bare feet catch my attention. Small. Defenseless. Red nail polish chipped at the edges. Vulnerable in a way that makes my jaw clench.
I think about discipline. Real discipline.
Not the weak corrections most men offer, but the kind that breaks and rebuilds. The kind that leaves marks. Memories. Lessons that don’t fade.
I want to put her over my knee. Want to feel her fight against my grip before she yields. Want to watch her skin bloom red under my hand. Want to hear her try to swallow her sounds, to maintain that defiance even as she surrenders.
She thinks running to a taco stand was rebellion? She has no idea what she’s awakened.
My knuckles crack as my fist tightens.
She flinches. Glances over.
“What?” Her voice is barely audible. Good. She’s learning caution.
“I’m thinking about what happens to people who run from me.”
Her eyes widen. Just slightly.
“I didn’t break our contract.” A thread of steel remains in her voice. I’ll enjoy dismantling it.
“No?” I shift toward her. Just enough to trap her in the corner of the seat. “Then explain why my bride was barefoot in the street while I waited.”
“The ceremony hasn’t started—”
“The moment you signed that paper, you were mine.” The words scrape through my teeth. “Every inch. Every breath. Every fucking impulse.”
Her pulse jumps at her throat. Visible. Betraying her.
“You don’t own me.” Her chin lifts.
So much to learn. So many ways to teach her.
“Tonight,” I say, the word a promise, “after the ceremony. After the cameras and the guests. When it’s just you and me. We’ll discuss exactly what I own.”
Fear flickers in her eyes. But beneath it—something else. Something hungry.
She knows. Some primal part of her understands what’s coming.
I reach out. Drag one finger along her jawline. Feel her tremble.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers.
My thumb presses against her bottom lip. Just enough pressure to remind her how easily I could take more.
“You will be.”
She tries to swallow. Chokes slightly. A small, panicked sound escapes her throat as she pulls back.
Fear. Real fear, finally cracking through that defiance.
Good.
We pull up to the estate, and I don’t wait for the driver to open the door. The second my feet hit the pavement, Timur and the others are waiting. Natasha stands near the entrance, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. She’s stiff, but it’s not defiance—it’s tension. Anticipation. She already knows what’s coming.
They all do.
I step forward, rolling my cuffs up—one slow, deliberate fold at a time.
“If this happens again, I will not waste my time chasing after her. I will start with all of you.”
Natasha is the first to pale.
Timur exhales slowly through his nose, his posture unflinching but taut. The others? They don’t even blink. Smart. Fear has its place.
I let my words settle. Let them think. Let them imagine. Let them understand.
“All of you were here. Watching. Waiting. While my bride sat in the street like a stray.”
The air is thick, heavy, pressing. I don’t need to raise my voice. I don’t need to repeat myself.
“If I have to retrieve her again, I will make sure none of you have hands left to sign your resignation letters.”
No one breathes.
Natasha looks down. Timur’s fingers twitch at his side.
And then Bella moves.
She steps forward, swallowing hard.
“This wasn’t their fault. I—”
I turn my head, slow. My gaze snaps to her, and it’s like I’ve cracked a whip through the space between us. She freezes.
“Quiet.”
Not raised. Not rushed. Just final. A command that leaves no room for argument.
Bella’s lips part, her throat bobs, but she doesn’t speak. Natasha doesn’t even look in her direction. Timur exhales, like he’s waiting for the bullet.
She tries again. “I was the one—”
I close the space between us in a single step. She sucks in a breath, and her spine straightens, but it’s too late.
“You speak for no one. Least of all them.”
I watch the words hit. Watch the impact in the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, the way her breath catches.
I want to press my thumb to the corner of her mouth, wipe away the memory of the taco grease and the taste of her defiance. But there’s no time.
Less than an hour.
I let my gaze drift over the team once more. They don’t move until I do.
“Get her ready.”
And then I walk away.