Chapter 8 Ani
The commotion outside my bedroom door cuts through the haze of sleep before my brain even bothers to register the sunlight peeking through the closed curtains.
At first, it’s distant, muffled, deep tones.
As they move toward to my room, the volume spikes, and it echoes through the suite.
I quickly realize the disturbance that woke me is several men shouting.
Someone is pissed. Someone else is trying to calm them down. And they’re all getting closer.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and squint at the clock on the nightstand. It’s early—far too early—for anyone to be yelling outside my bedroom. Still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sit up with an annoyed groan.
The low rumble on the other side of the door sharpens into words I can’t quite make out—my name, maybe—as the heavy footsteps come to a stop right outside the door to my room.
Without so much as a knock, the door swings open.
All six-foot-something of broad shoulders and barely contained temper of Nikolai Romanov bursts in, with a smug and uninvited smile plastered across his face.
An uncontrolled gasp flies from my lungs as I hastily flounder for the sheets and yank them up to my collarbone in an attempt to cover myself.
“Time to go, Mrs. King,” he barks, like this is a perfectly acceptable way to greet a nearly naked woman after barging into her room. He strides to the closet and begins rifling through the hangers with zero regard for the designer clothes carefully hanging on them.
“Don’t call me that!” My voice is sharp—and uncharacteristically shrill—with a displeasure I usually reserve for my unwanted bodyguards when I need a few moments of peace. “And be careful with my things.”
“Why not?” he asks without bothering to look at me as he tosses a dress onto the bed. “It’s your name now.”
I glare at him, my fingers tightening around the sheet. “No. It’s your name. I’m just… just borrowing it,” I sass, pulling the fabric tighter to my chest.
He smirks at me over his shoulder as a tiny scoff blows over his lips. “Pretty sure that’s not how marriage works.”
“Pretty sure this isn’t a marriage,” I shoot back.
He turns from my closet with a look of sheer arrogance. “Pretty sure Judge Ralston and your brother would disagree. And so long as you’re”—he air quotes—“borrowing my name, you’ll be doing it under my roof.”
“Not happening.” I cross my arms over the sheet, anchoring it in place. “This”—I gesture vaguely between us—“was a favor to Alek. I didn’t sign up to play house.”
“You signed up to be my wife,” he states so flatly it almost sounds like he believes this isn’t a sham. “And that means you signed up for my rules.”
Opening my mouth, I am about to tell him exactly what I think about being his wife and how I feel about his so-called rules, only to find myself expelling a squeal instead when he yanks the sheet from my grip.
I clamber from the bed and lunge toward him to grab the protection back, but he is faster.
Moving fluidly, he quickly wraps it around me—covering me and pinning my arms to my frame—and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Alek!” I scream, futilely writhing on his shoulder and trying to wriggle my arms free.
“I think you’re forgetting that he’s the one who forced us to marry,” he imparts with the calmness of a man who isn’t in the middle of committing an actual felony. “He knows I’m here, and trust me, he is the last person who is going to save you.”
With his arm firmly banded across the back of my thighs, he carries me from the bedroom, through the hotel suite, and straight into the hallway. “Put me down!” I kick and flail, but it only makes him adjust his hold as he waits for the elevator to arrive.
“Gladly,” he exhales, stepping into the cab and dropping me to the floor as the doors slide shut.
The sheet slips from my frame as I quickly find my footing.
I’m forced to hold it with both hands to keep from flashing him or the elderly couple, who are blessed with sharing this ride with us.
They eye the two of us with suspicion, clearly interested in the scene unfolding.
By the time we reach the lobby, I’m simmering with silent fury. The doors open, and I stay rooted in place. “There is absolutely no way in hell I am walking through the lobby wearing this.”
“Have it your way,” he mutters with annoyance as he hoists me over his shoulder again.
The soles of his shoes slap against the marble floors, amplifying his brisk pace as he carries me through the lobby like a ragdoll.
The brisk morning air prickles my skin, raising goosebumps, when he pushes through the doors to the valet.
He walks straight to a black Range Rover waiting at the curb, like he knew I’d fight him every step of the way.
With his free hand on the sheet to keep me from bolting, he sets me on my feet just long enough to open the passenger door.
“In,” he barks, nudging me. Leaning in, he presses me into the seat as he grabs the belt.
His well-trimmed beard brushes along my jaw for the briefest second, and the touch is intimate in a way I’m not prepared for.
My breath catches, and I find myself swallowing the sudden lump in my throat.
Damn it.
The seatbelt clicks into place, and he yanks it tight—hard enough to make me gasp.
His eyes flick to mine, one brow arching as though he’s baiting me.
When I say nothing, he shuts the door and rounds the car to the driver’s side.
I fold my arms and huff loudly as he takes his seat behind the wheel.
“You do know that in most countries, this is a crime, right?”
“You might act like a child, but you aren’t one,” he retorts, gunning the engine. “So it’s not kidnapping.”
“Oh, so what is the legal term for this, counselor?”
“If anything… it's abduction.” He flips on the blinker, pulling away from the curb. “I call it bringing my wife home.”
“That’s cute. I call it grounds for annulment.”
He glances at me, and I can’t quite read his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or disdain. “Do you think Alek would go through all the trouble of blackmailing us, just to let you out of it the following morning?”
“I think Alek doesn’t get to dictate where I live.”
“Wrong again.” His tone is maddeningly casual. Does anything get a rise out of him? “He dictated exactly that when he made you my problem. I’m just ensuring it happens.”
I keep my gaze fixed out the passenger window to keep from seeing the smugness on Nikolai’s face.
The ride is short, but every red light feels like an eternity.
I keep my gaze fixed out the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fume.
We pull into the parking garage. After coming to a stop in his assigned space, he kills the engine and turns toward me.
“You can make this easy, Ani. Or you can make it difficult.”
Turning slowly to face him, I stare at him for a moment before sassing, “Difficult. Obviously.”
“Good.” He grins, and for a second, I think he might actually be enjoying this. “I was starting to get bored.”
“You are su—”
He slips from the driver’s seat and shuts the car door before I can tell him exactly where he can shove his boredom.
Nikolai rounds the car quickly, swinging my door open and gently—but firmly—grabbing my arm before I can even reach for the seatbelt.
He hauls me out of the car as I readjust the sheet, my stomach turning at the thought of parading through another building with it as my attire.
“This is insane,” I hiss as he shuts the door behind me.
“Probably,” he quips. “But it’s happening.”
He leads me to the elevator, and I can’t help but feel grateful that we are bypassing the lobby and heading straight to his apartment.
The ride is silent but charged. He is standing so close that his warmth heats my bare arm, even when he momentarily lets his rough hand fall from my skin.
And I hate that I notice. The doors slide open with a ding, and he leads me across the hall with confidence, as if the outcome of him barging into my room this morning was never in question.
Maybe it wasn’t.