Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Rafail
While she sleeps, I make a few phone calls. My mind races. She’s curious and bright, and even though, so far, her memory is spotty, there’s no question with a mind as sharp as hers that it will come back.
And fuck me, she’s gorgeous. I wasn’t prepared for this.
For her. Every inch of her challenges my self-control.
Those wide, almost innocent eyes that glint with defiance, the gentle part of her full lips when she’s surprised, almost like she’s tempting without even trying.
Her skin is pale and flawless, and when she shifts, the curve of her neck beckons to me.
Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, as brilliant as a Snow Queen’s.
I clench my fists, willing myself to focus, to remember that she’s here because she ran from me, but every inch of her soft skin, every delectable curve, only makes it harder to concentrate. The sooner I truly claim her, the sooner I truly make her mine…
When I held her, the scent of her skin, soft and slightly sweet, hit me like a drug, raw and intoxicating, making my pulse race.
When she looked up at me with wide eyes, her pretty lips just inches from my own, I could hardly keep myself from tracing the line of her jaw, from pressing my lips to the place where her pulse beats just beneath her delicate skin.
I want to bury my hands in her hair and my cock in her tight, hot pussy until she arches beneath me, helpless and mine. I’ve fought, controlled, dominated, and conquered so many before her, yet nothing prepared me for this. For her.
The woman who brought near devastation to everything I’ve ever built, who put my entire family at risk.
I’ll claim that sweet, hot cunt of hers until the memory of my touch is seared into her.
I look out the window at our estate. I poured blood, sweat, and tears into keeping this house in my family’s name. In my name. When I was still barely over the threshold of adulthood, it was a much harder task than I’d anticipated.
People have always called it “The Cottage,” but it’s anything but small and simple—more like a fortress.
Our large, sprawling home just outside of Moscow blends with the old-fashioned style of old Russia with modern touches—tall stone walls, large windows, and intricate iron gates that almost make it feel like a citadel.
Inside, I’ve kept it simple and functional—my office and command center on the first floor are the only places I’ve focused any of my attention.
My sisters, however, have brought warmth and comfort.
Yana begged me to let her decorate, insisting that every room needed a touch of “her unique charm,” as she put it, her playful grin challenging anyone. I gave my sister what she wanted. I had to. It gave me no small pleasure to know my father would turn over in his grave in disapproval.
I look toward my bedroom.
When I’m confident Anissa’s resting, the medication keeping her in a light state of sedation for now, but the effort she expended exhausting her, I step into the hallway and meet up with my brothers, who hover nearby.
They’re eager to back me up as always, but there’s a hint of fear in their eyes over what happens next.
I peer in at her, the door slightly ajar.
No one’s come into this home since our parents’ death. My marriage—however unofficial it is—changes everything.
"How’d she take the news?" Rodion asks me.
I shrug and sigh. "She has a lot of questions, but so far, so good." I shake my head and keep my voice low, even though I know she can’t hear me. “I tried to tell her as much of the truth as I could."
"Now, brother, there's no need to lie," Rodion smirks, obviously delighting in my predicament. "You definitely didn’t tell her as much of the truth as you could. You may have told her as much of the truth as you could get away with." He snorts. “I ought to know. That’s my specialty.”
I grunt. He’s not lying.
“I believe what you meant to say is that creative truth-telling is my only tactic.” Semyon says, smacking Rodion’s shoulder.
I love these assholes, even if I want to throttle them sometimes.
"How much time do you have?" Semyon asks. "Like, what if she wakes up tomorrow and remembers who she is?"
"I don’t know how much time I have. I could have months, weeks, or days." I shove my hands in my pockets. “But it sounds like it’s very rare that one’s memory returns rapidly.”
"So, you must focus on making that woman of yours like you," Rodion says with a lopsided grin that makes him look like a cat with a mouse’s tail trapped under it’s paw.
I give him a withering look. "She doesn’t have to like me," I say with disgust. "I wouldn’t know the first thing about that anyway."
My brothers share a look.
“What?” Frustration mounts in my chest. I scowl. “What the hell are you looking at each other like that for?”
Semyon sighs. "He’s not wrong, brother. It might help, you know."
I think about this for a moment without responding. Help with what?
Rodion leans forward, holding my gaze. "You look genuinely perplexed.
Do you mean to tell me that for once in my life, I actually have an opportunity to fill my big brother in on something?
Imagine, after all these years, after everything you've taught me, I actually know something you don't?” He shakes his head and curses.
I grunt at him and look back through the open door to where my bride rests. She was pretty wrecked. And she was definitely concerned about what I did to the people who hit her.
That’s none of her concern. It won’t ever be. He was reckless, careless. He could've killed her. The asshole was playing on his phone instead of watching the road. And yes, she shouldn't have run into traffic the way she did, but if he had been paying attention, it would've been easy to swerve.
From here, I can see the gold-framed mirrors Yana put up, the soft silk curtains drawn tight, and the roses Zoya placed beside the bed. My bride rests in a room as finely appointed as a queen’s—but with every lock and guard in place to keep her mine.
What if she wakes up and she's disoriented? What if she wakes up and looks for me? Or worse, what if she wakes up and remembers who she is?
Will she try to run again? When I join her, the door to our bedroom will be locked, as is every other exit to the house, secured with my men.
I would think that if she woke up and remembered who she was, she wouldn't make the mistake of running again, especially with her leg in a cast and her other injuries to account for.
Rodion leans in, clearly delighted that he gets to tell me what to do for once.
"You have two choices here, Rafail. The carrot or the stick. And trust me, when it comes to a beautiful woman like her, you want to at least start with the carrot.” His eyes gleam with a hint of challenge. Behind him, Semyon raises an eyebrow, silently daring me to show restraint.
I clench my fists and narrow my eyes at Rodion. "Don’t you ever fucking make a comment about my wife’s looks again.”
“Whoa, sorry," he says, holding his hands up. "I didn’t mean anything.” He looks at Semyon, who meets his gaze.
Yeah, I called her my wife. By all intents and purposes, that’s exactly who she is, whether that’s official on paper or not.
I growl at him but keep my eyes trained on him. Maybe he does have something to teach me.
"The stick worked fine for you.”
Semyon chuckles. “He’s got a point, brother."
My younger brother was a wild card, and some like to think he still is. He needed a firm hand. Discipline. He tried my patience like a motherfucker, but I stayed the course, and he finally grew the hell up.
Now, he's a dependable, full-fledged member of our Bratva, but I haven't forgotten who he was. Maybe all of us carry a thread of who we were, no matter how we evolve or age.
"You should at least consider what he says," Semyon suggests.
"You don't know how long you have. What if she remembers within a week?
If she still hates you, you're going to have a woman who knows she's not actually married to you," he says in a whisper, "who still hates you, who escaped you once and would no doubt try to escape you again. "
"I have at least eight weeks," I respond, staring at her, prone in the bed. "She's wearing a cast."
Semyon’s brows shoot up, and he shakes his head. "You're telling me a woman bold enough to run away from the most powerful man in Zalivka is going to let a little thing like a cast hold her back?"
I grunt again. “You don’t have to fall in love with a woman to get her to respect and obey you. I have rules. She’ll follow them.” I give them both a meaningful look. They learned. Why complicate shit?
"Jesus," Semyon says, rolling his eyes. "I feel like the candlestick or the clock or whatever the fuck in Beauty and the Beast trying to tell the Beast to mind his fucking manners."
Rodion snorts. "You are definitely the clock. He’s the high-strung one."
What the fuck are they talking about? I shake my head and text Vadka.
What have you found?
Vadka
A lot. Briefing coming to your inbox in ten minutes. Look it over, then we'll chat.
I nod and shove my phone in my pocket, glance back at the room, and my heart leaps into my throat. The bed’s empty.
“What the fuck?”
Semyon places a hand on my arm. "She got out of bed two minutes ago when you were texting Vadka. She hobbled off to the bathroom. Relax.”
Relax. Jesus. I’ll relax when they lay my body in a grave. I have too much at stake to relax.
I knew I should've stayed right there. Jesus. What if she falls? She doesn't have any crutches.
“Dinner at six,” I snap. “Don’t be late.”
As I reach the door to our bedroom, I can still hear Semyon grumbling from down the hall. "Dinner at six, as if we haven't had it at six every single night for years. Does he think we'll forget?"