Chapter 12
I thought Targen Jones-Sidorov was arrogant, but his crazy ass brother had a full-on God complex.
I paced the length of the borrowed bedroom furiously, wishing I had something to smack Maxim Sidorov, and more importantly, his younger brother with for bringing me into this mess.
The door opened, and I glanced up to see said younger brother eyeing me.
“Take me home before I blow this mothafucka up,” I hissed.
He walked closer, the apology written all over his face. I wasn’t in the mood to hear it, though. His apologies meant nothing when no change followed. I wanted to go home… or wherever home would be until I fixed my place back up.
“Milaya—”
I held up a hand. “Uh-uh! Don’t you milaya or malyshka me, Negro! Who the fuck does he think he is? Just cuz y’all bow down to his ass—”
His eyes flashed silver, mouth tightening ominously. He moved closer to me. I hoped he didn’t think I was backing down. Not on this.
“Watch that little fly mouth, Theory. I don’t bow to no mothafucka that bleeds,” he gritted out, bringing his face down to within an inch of mine.
“Ugh,” I exclaimed my disgust with the whole situation. I whirled away from him, only to feel his grasp on my upper arm, moving me gently.
I wondered again about how this man knew how to grab me to get his point across. Not tight enough to hurt or scare me, but enough to let me know he was serious and would be heard.
“Milaya,” he started again, cupping my face. “I’on want you upset about our upcoming nuptials, but I’m okay if you are.”
My mouth fell open in shock. This is where the writer in me would use the phrase “unmitigated gall,” because the Sidorovs? Yeah, they had it.
“You’re okay if I’m angry about being forced to marry you? You’re all a bunch of delusional jackasses who think your word is law! How can you lie like you care about me and then say you’re okay making me do something I don’t want to do, something so serious? Make it make sense, Targen!”
I was almost hoarse from yelling as I glared up at him. I brought my arms up between his and pushed outward, breaking his hold on my face. He just grabbed it again, frustrating the hell out of me.
“I’m okay because I know it won’t last. I’m okay because I know a year from now you gon’ feel like marrying me is one of the best things you ever did,” he maintained.
The confidence… no, arrogance in his voice pissed me the fuck off. But the warm press of his lips against mine sealed promises that part of me was tempted to explore. I shook my head, breaking the soft kiss before stepping back.
“I just… I can’t believe him or your father or you. You can’t just—” Another head shake. “I need some time, some space,” I murmured.
“That’s fine.”
Sighing, I plopped down onto the bench and buried my face in my hands.
I was so confused. The reality was, I was kidnapped, being held by a man with a questionable background, and on the verge of being forced to marry him.
I wasn’t Emory; I wasn’t built for the life of a gangster wife.
I wanted a decent, law-abiding husband who would love, protect, and provide for me and our miracle babies.
Marrying Targen, with his mysterious disappearances and shadowy family was not in the plan.
But for some reason, my outrage seemed very…
understated. I should be breaking windows and smashing doors trying to get out of this silk-wrapped prison.
He told me my house was trashed, and I took his word for it.
And what had I done? I slept in a ridiculously sumptuous bed in a ridiculously sumptuous house and ate ridiculously sumptuous food while wearing ridiculously sumptuous clothes.
Oh, and I’d gotten the best massage I ever had in my life.
I mean, sure, I was guarded 24/7 by big, mean looking men, but other than huffing and puffing, I hadn’t even resisted much.
All because this man told me he was protecting me, keeping me safe.
And because you felt safe with him even before he said that, some rebellious part of my brain taunted. I slipped right into that damn Stockholm Syndrome wearing bespoke clothes and killer Louboutins.
That was about to change.
The sound of Targen clearing his throat had my head flying up. I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he apologized.
“I said I needed time and space,” I snapped at him.
He waved a hand to indicate the space between us. “Girl, I gave all this space to you and a whole five minutes.”
If there was one thing that this man had, it was the audacity! I honestly didn’t know if my trembling lip was a sign that I was about to laugh or cry. He walked over and sat down beside me while I tried to figure it out.
“We had a year of space and time, shorty. A miserable fucking year cuz I missed you every fucking night. So, this all you get, mama. Keep thinking and raging and whatever. But you gotta do it with me right here,” he said, wrapping one possessive arm around me.
I swear, my long exhale carried the weariness of the ancestors. “Targen, you can’t do this. You can’t sugarcoat the seriousness of what you did and what you trying to do,” I insisted.
“No sugarcoating, milaya. I told you that you don’t do the worrying or stressing anymore.
You sitting here working yourself into an anxiety attack for no reason.
Saturday, you’ll marry me. That’s gon’ happen no matter how much you turn it over in that big ol’ brain.
There’s no use in worrying about it. All you need to do, malyshka, is get ready. ”
I started to argue. I honestly was ready to fight him about it. But then, I thought, maybe I was doing just what I needed to do. Put up just a little resistance. Lull him into a false sense of security. Then, Bam! Breakout this bitch like I had a life sentence and nothing to lose.
Even silk-wrapped prisons were prisons. And I’d had enough of being captive for a lifetime.
So, I whispered, “You’re crazy. I’m not agreeing to that,” at the same time that I allowed myself to curl into his side.
I smiled inwardly.
He’d never see what was coming.