Chapter 1
Valentina
“NOTHING SAYS MARITAL BLISS LIKE A BARGAINING CHIP WITH BOOBS.”
“Oh, yeah, Daddy, do it harder!” I mouth off in a high-pitched voice as the cane strikes my back like fire licking at my skin. Not bare skin.
Because the “Princess” of the Alaskan Peninsula can’t possibly have any scars.
Or apparently…a bachelorette party right before she’s married off to a platinum prick of a Russian oligarch.
“Zatknis’!”
I don’t know many words in my father’s native tongue—my rebellious “fuck off” trait—but I know Russian for “shut up”.
The chill of the wine cellar drifts across my face. No cameras here. Soundproof cellar. A perfect place for punishments. Daddy should really consider selling the idea.
The cane hits me with more force. There might be a blanket over me, but it still hurts like a bitch. Clenching my teeth, I screech, take a few ragged breaths, and spit out, “You know corporal punishment is illegal, right?”
It doesn’t matter how many times he’s done this. I still struggle, kicking and writhing and straining with the ropes binding me to the support beam. My tongue does more. Sure, he canes me harder for it, but pissing him off is like a cherry on an arsenic sundae.
Strike. Strike. Strike. Three rapid-fire blows back to back.
“You know…” I suck in deep breaths as sweat grows on my skin. “Studies prove that beating your kids stunts their emotional growth.” I glare before smiling like an animated villain. “It must mean I’m a psycho now, right?”
“You think this is a game?’ he demands in his thick brogue, pausing to catch his breath and rub a hand down his face.
Too bad he’s not portly and short. No, my father is tall, bulky, and intimidating with sculpted and commanding Russian features, a strong jaw, and a well-defined brow.
“Sneaking out, taunting that blogger—do you have any idea what you’ve risked? ”
“He instigated it,” I spit out, my back still burning. I toss my gold curls over my shoulder. “I warned him to get that camera out of my face or I’d bust his balls and break his nose.” Which I did.
“The Makarovas expect a wife, not a scandal,” he growls. “You are not just my daughter, Valentina. You are a contract. And I won’t let you ruin it.”
“Oh, how romantic. Nothing says marital bliss like a bargaining chip with boobs.”
He yells, and I flinch, bracing myself as the cane comes down harder than ever. I hiss. “Tell me, does Anton even know what color my eyes are, or is that irrelevant to the contract?”
My father rains blows down across my back, my shoulders, my ass, and my thighs. Considering I’m about to be married in three days, you’d think he’d want to preserve my skin from redness. Whatever. It will probably clear up by then, especially when a nurse tends to me.
Once he’s huffed and puffed enough, my father, the notorious Victor Volkov of the mafia in this Alaska region, chucks the cane to the cement floor, then unties me.
The blanket slips from my shoulders, and I shiver at the chill thanks to the form-fitting mini dress. The gold fabric reflects off the bottles, glimmering in the dim light.
I’m nearly buckling, but I reinforce my knees with all my willpower, lift my chin, and burn my eyes against his. Not intimidating. My eyes are soft and sultry with a violet-blue worthy of witchlight.
Gripping my chin, my father bares his teeth and rumbles, “Too stubborn. Too spirited. Just like your mother. If you do not learn more respect, you will meet the same fate as she.”
The words sting when I consider the mother I barely ever met—otherwise known as his American mistress.
Despite the half-soiled bloodline, I am his only daughter.
And with my feminine assets—let’s just say I’m a knockout—other powerful mafia families have lined up to ogle and drool.
I’m not just used to it, I’ve used it…to every advantage.
Wrinkling my nose, I jerk my chin away. “Speaking of dear old mum, why don’t we have a glass of port in her honor?” I gesture to the selections around us.
He gnashes his teeth, and I don’t hide my grin. Because my equally stubborn mother put just enough sleeping drugs in his port so she could escape his violence…with me in her arms. My heart clenches because it was the last night I ever felt her arms.
The shot thundered inside my entire being before my father ripped me from her bleeding corpse, left her in the snow, and brought me home, where only my brother comforted me. All I had to remember her by was the clump of blonde curls I tore when he wrestled me from her body.
Sasha is nothing like our father.
Only a year older, he still comforts me, meeting me on the staircase. He’s wincing, his eyes pained. We share the same punishment. And judging from his tight jaw and heavy shoulders, Sasha received a double share—because he helped me sneak out.
He never blames me. And the pain brings us closer together.
Heaving a sigh, I join him as we walk up the stairs. After the nurse treats me, we go to the library and nestle into the floor pillows and blankets in our corner, drinking vodka, surrounded by the smell of old books.
“If it helps, I hear he’s got a big dick.” Sasha chuffs a laugh and salutes me with his shot glass.
I roll my eyes, down my shot, and mutter, “Big dicks are nothing without the big dick energy.”
He shrugs, and I lay my head on his shoulder, flicking one of his dark strands.
Sasha might have our father’s commanding eyes and jaw, but he has his mother’s nobility and kindness, my stepmother.
She is honorable but too weak-willed to counter Victor.
And her submission warrants his favor. But Mila has only ever been kind to me.
Distant but kind. She can’t get attached to me.
I don’t blame her for prioritizing Sasha.
“Anton is a playboy,” my brother reminds me.
“But he’s also the political charmer with the charisma and good looks to match.
No craft or cunning from what I know. Just the face his father needs.
The perfect front for the Makarova Family.
You might be his trophy wife, Val, but I have every faith you will be pulling his strings in no time. ”
I make a face and down another shot. Just once, I would love for a man to pull my strings, preferably pulling me over his knee after I mouth off.
How delicious a change if a man conquered me.
Even Sasha knows not to mess with me ever since he stole my rocking horse when he was eight.
So, I put superglue on the saddle of his real horse.
Sasha gave the wooden horse back the next day.
No antics will be tolerated with the Makarovas.
“Do you know anything about his brother?” I wonder.
“Roman?” Sasha tilts his head and lowers his brows, shrugging. “No. He travels a lot. Does a lot of business for his father, Nikolai. Did you see him the one time you—?”
“No, just Anton.” I shake my head and take another swig, thinking of how I met my future husband nearly a month ago.
Their mansion was pretty damn impressive.
And Anton was pretty impressive…on the outside.
Tall. Strong build. Sculpted features. Dark curly hair.
A little too pretty…and charming for my taste.
He said all the right things, but he was overly polite.
And I don’t trust polite men, especially Russian ones.
“No sisters.” I shrug, swirling my vodka. “And the mother has been gone for a long time. So, it looks like I’ll be the reigning female. Queen of the Makarovas.”
“No one better for the crown.” Sasha winks.
The crown of a trophy queen.
After we drink and exchange banter, my brother promises to visit me as often as possible. Finally, we part ways.
I shut the door to my bedroom, kick off my heels, and turn on the light. A fever heats my chest the second I see the display on my desk. My breath catches at the vase filled with dozens of purple roses. Purple for royalty. Well, that’s a step up from the norm.
I blush at all the recent mystery letters—ones I’ve tucked into a secret place in my room. I haven’t shown them to Sasha. I won’t show them to anyone
The rest of my life is dull static, but him, my stalker? He’s the sharp note that cuts through. The only thing worth listening to.
If only I could hear his voice.
I run my fingers along the edge of my desk. Beneath the false bottom, his notes lie in neat stacks. I could recite them all if I wanted. The things he’s said to me. The things he’s asked of me, and more recently…commanded.
My gaze flicks to the vase of roses on my corner table near the window, their deep amethyst petals mirroring my eyes. As I lean in to inhale their fragrance, something glints, dark and lustrous, around the stem of a bloom.
I pluck it free, holding it up to the light. A choker of black pearls, smooth and cool against my fingertips. At its center, a single teardrop ruby winks at me like a blood-red promise.
There’s a note.
Keep your window shades open.
Strip.
Wear this. And only this.
Heat unfurls low in my stomach, licking at my ribs, spreading through my limbs. My fingers tremble, but not from fear. This is an escalation.
Until now, it’s been mostly notes and him stealing my lace panties. Unwashed ones. I smirk. He left me perfume once. Rare. Expensive. A bracelet. I never wear it publicly of course.
I catch my reflection in the window, the starlight shimmering beyond the glass.
Facing the glass, I slowly slide the gold dress from my shoulders. It whispers down my arms, pooling at my feet like spilled sunlight.
I reach back, fastening the choker around my throat, and exhale, shivering as I step closer to the window.
Is he watching me now?