Florrie
Play along, or you die.
The words barely register through the roaring in my ears. Everything is happening too fast. The guns, the shouting, the way this stranger's mouth is pressed against mine like he owns me.
His hand is still on the back of my neck, fingers tangled in my hair, holding me in place with a grip that's both warmly possessive and icily terrifying. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb pressed just under my chin, forcing me to stay tilted up toward him.
I can't breathe.
Or maybe I'm breathing too fast.
His lips move against mine again, softer this time, and I realize with a jolt that he's still kissing me. Not hard like before, but still very deliberately. Like he's trying to sell this to the room full of armed men who were about to…
Oh god.
They were going to kill me.
My knees go weak, and his arm bands around my waist immediately, hauling me against his solid, warm chest. The expensive fabric of his shirt is smooth under my palms, and I'm very aware that I'm still touching him, that my hands are splayed across his chest like I'm holding on instead of trying to push away.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my mouth, so quiet I almost miss it.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are ice. Pale grey, cold and calculating, the kind of eyes that see everything and give nothing away. They're beautiful in a way that makes my stomach twist, and when they lock on mine, I forget how to think.
He's handsome. Devastatingly so. Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looks like it takes no effort at all. He is tall enough that I have to crane my neck even in heels, and built like someone who could withstand a hurricane.
Nothing like Brad.
The thought hits me sideways, inappropriate and absurd, but it's there. Brad with his soft hands and protein shake muscles, his cheap cologne and cheaper lines. This man is the opposite of everything Brad pretended to be online.
Dangerous.
Real.
And he just called me his wife.
"Your wife?" The accented voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. The man in the too-tight suit is staring at us, his face mottled with anger and suspicion. "Since when?"
"Since I married her." The stranger's voice is flat, bored almost, like he's discussing the weather instead of my life. He finally turns away from me and it’s like being thrown back into the real world. "Is that a problem, Valentin?"
There's a threat buried in those words. I can hear it even if I don't understand it, and apparently Valentin can too because he lowers his weapon fully before holstering it beneath his jacket.
"No. No problem." But his eyes narrow. "You didn't mention a wife."
"I don't mention a lot of things." The stranger's hand is still on my waist, fingers digging in just slightly. A warning, play along, or you die. "My personal life isn't your concern."
"Of course not." Valentin's smile is thin and doesn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations."
No one believes this.
I can see it in the way the men are still holding their weapons, still watching me like I'm a problem that needs to be solved. My pulse is hammering so hard I'm sure they can all hear it.
The stranger must sense it too because his hand moves from my waist to my hip, thumb stroking slowly over the fabric of my dress. It feels like ownership, which I guess is the point. We are trying to sell something here, after all. I take a steadying breath through my nose and relax into his side.
"We're done here," he says, still in that flat, bored tone. "My men will contact you about the next shipment."
"Of course." Valentin gestures to his men, and they start moving toward the crates, lifting them with practiced efficiency. But he doesn't leave, instead looking me over one more time. I curve my arm around the stranger’s waist and lift my other hand to his chest. "You'll vouch for her discretion?"
The stranger's eyes narrow, his voice dropping, going colder. "Are you questioning my ability to choose an appropriate wife, Valentin? Because that would be an overstep on your part."
Valentin pales. "Fair enough." He nods once, sharply, then finally turns toward the door. His men follow, carrying the crates between them. The metal door slams shut behind them, and suddenly the warehouse is much quieter.
The four men who were standing behind the stranger are still here, still watching me with expressions that range from curious to hostile. One of them; older, with a scar running through his eyebrow, crosses his arms and says something in that same language I heard through the door.
Russian, maybe? I don't know. I failed Spanish in high school; Eastern European languages are way beyond me.
The stranger responds in the same language, his tone clipped and final. Whatever he says makes the scarred man's eyebrows rise, but he nods and jerks his head toward the others. They file out through a different door, leaving us alone.
Us.
Me and this man whose name I don't even know.
He's still holding me. His hand hasn't moved from my hip, and now that we're alone, the possessive weight of it feels even more pronounced.
"You can let go of me now," I manage, my voice shaking.
He doesn't.
Instead, he studies me with those cold grey eyes, his expression unreadable. "Can I?"
"They're gone. You don't have to—" I try to step back, but his grip tightens.
"Don't." It's not loud, but it stops me cold. "Do you have any idea what you just walked into?"
"I—" My mouth is dry. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"The bathroom." He repeats it like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. Which, to be fair, it probably is. "You walked into an active arms deal because you were looking for a bathroom."
"I didn't know it was an arms deal! I thought it was an exit, or maybe a—"
"You saw weapons. You saw money. You saw faces." Each word is precise, controlled. "Any one of those things is enough to get you killed."
My stomach lurches. "I won't say anything. I swear. I don't even know who any of you people are, I just—"
"It doesn't matter." He cuts me off. "Valentin doesn't trust you. His men don't trust you. And the only reason you're still breathing is because I told them you're mine."
Mine.
I ignore what that word does to me with champion-level restraint.
"I'm not—"
"You are now." He releases my hip finally, but only to pull his phone from his pocket. He glances at the screen, and something flickers across his face. Frustration? Calculation? It's gone before I can identify it. "Come with me."
"What? No. I need to—"
"You need to stay alive." He's already moving toward the door his men went through, and when I don't follow immediately, he turns back. "Walk, or I'll carry you. Your choice."
I believe him. I actually believe he'll throw me over his shoulder and haul me out of here like a sack of potatoes if I don't move.
My legs feel like jelly, but I force them to work, following him through the door and into another hallway. This one is narrower, cleaner, with carpet instead of concrete. We pass what looks like storage rooms, an office, a—
He stops in front of a door and pulls out a key card, swiping it through the reader. The lock clicks open.
"Inside."
I hesitate. Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to go into an elevator with this man, but what choice do I have? If I run, where would I even go? Back to the main part of the club where Brad is probably still waiting? Out into the city, where Valentin's men might be watching?
I step inside. A few seconds later the door opens to reveal an office.
Sleek, modern, with windows that overlook the club below. I can see the dance floor from here, the bar, the crowd of people who have no idea what just happened twenty feet below them.
The door slides shut behind me, and I hear a lock engage.
We're alone.
He moves past me to the desk, setting his phone down with careful precision. Then he just stands there, one hand braced on the polished surface, eyes fixed on me like he's trying to decide something.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly very aware of how alone I am with this man.
"What's your name?" he asks finally, allowing his gaze to move over me.
"Florrie." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "Florrie Cassel."
"Florrie." He says it slowly, like he's testing how it sounds. Then he lifts his head, and those grey eyes pin me in place. "I'm Leon Dubovich."
Dubovich.
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it like it should makes my skin prickle.
"Leon," I echo stupidly.
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Sit down, Florrie. We need to talk."
I don't sit. I can't. My legs won't cooperate, and besides, sitting feels like surrendering somehow.
"What did you mean when you said I'm yours?" I ask instead.
He picks up his phone again, thumb swiping across the screen. He stares at it for a long moment, and I watch something shift in his expression. Something that looks almost like a decision.
When he looks up at me again, his eyes are colder than before.
"Exactly what it sounded like," he says. "Congratulations, Florrie. You just became my wife."