Taisiya
Of all the unhinged things he has said since I walked into his club, this one takes first place.
“Your wife,” I repeat.
“That’s what I said.”
“You’ve known me for a few hours.”
“I make decisions quickly.”
“You rejected sex because I was having a difficult day, but marriage is fine?”
His eyes narrow. “I delayed sex.”
“You can’t decide to marry someone without asking them.”
“I can decide anything I want. Making it happen requires further discussion.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“I wanted your full attention.”
“You’ve got it. I’m considering using the fire poker.”
His attention moves towards the iron stand beside the fireplace, then returns to me. “You’d have to reach it before I stopped you.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m not tempting you, little bunny. I’m warning you.”
“Stop calling me that.” I shove my phone into the cardigan pocket before I throw it at him. “Why the hell would you want to marry me? You met me this afternoon. I arrived at your club with four thousand pounds inside a hollowed-out novel and admitted to killing a Bratva man.”
“That’s part of the reason.”
My anger loses momentum. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Try answering without sounding insane.”
He walks to the drinks cabinet, pours himself another vodka and drinks half before answering.
“You came to me instead of the police. You killed a man who attacked you. You had enough sense to hide cash outside the banking system, then you walked into a Bratva club alone because survival mattered more than fear.” He lowers the glass.
“You’re Russian. You’re smart. You’re attractive. You challenge me. I like that.”
“You left out impulsive, broke, traumatised, and currently wanted by at least one criminal organisation.”
“Those are temporary issues.”
“Marriage isn’t.”
“Exactly.”
I stare at him. He says it without any sign that he understands how deranged this conversation is.
“You can’t marry a stranger because she insulted you and killed someone.”
“I can.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you prefer Tai because you are tired of people pronouncing your full name wrong and asking for the spelling. You work at the Black Hart. You live in Camberwell. You own six outfits and one damaged rucksack. You eat lasagne for breakfast when distressed. You drink wine before noon. You apologise when you believe you’re wrong, which doesn’t happen often.
You hate being ordered around, but you accept help when terror overrides your pride. ”
My face gets hotter with every sentence.
He continues before I can interrupt.
“You’re frightened of the dark, though you’ll deny it if I mention it again. You use sarcasm when you feel cornered. You don’t trust anyone, including yourself. You still photographed the bruises on your wrist because some part of you wanted proof that Gregor caused this.”
I go still. “How do you know about the photographs?”
“Educated guess, because here’s the thing, Tai. I know you.”
“Fuck right off,” I growl and turn from him.
“Okay, if we are playing this game, here are some things I know about you. None of them are flattering, by the way. You hate light and noise, but you’d rather threaten everyone than admit you’re uncomfortable.
You use violence whenever someone irritates you, then pretend it’s a matter of principle.
You wear watches worth obscene amounts of money because you want people to notice them while acting above attention. ”
He narrows his eyes over the rim of his glass.
I keep going.
“You control everything. Your house, your staff, Bogdan, me. You don’t ask because an answer you dislike might ruin your plans. You’re arrogant, manipulative, and so emotionally constipated that you announced your intention to marry me instead of admitting you don’t want me to leave.”
He slams the glass down with a crack.
I’ve hit something.
Good.
“You kissed me because you wanted me. You stopped because wanting me scared you. Now you’re trying to turn it into a permanent arrangement before I can reject you first.”
My confidence takes one sensible step backwards. My feet don’t.
“You think I’m scared of rejection?” he asks.
“I think you’re scared of anything you can’t control.”
He walks towards me.
I hold my ground until he gets close enough that I have to tip my head back. He doesn’t touch me. That makes the space between us worse.
“You’ve learned a lot in a few hours,” he says.
“You’re not the only one paying attention.”
His eyes hold mine. Heat gathers low in my stomach, unwelcome and undeniable. I remember the kiss while my brain is trying to explain why marrying him would qualify as a catastrophic breakdown in judgement.
“You think you’ve worked me out,” he says.
“Enough to know this marriage idea isn’t romantic.”
“I never claimed it was.”
“Excellent. Every woman dreams of hearing that.”
“It’s practical.”
“For you.”
“For both of us.” His voice lowers. “As my wife, you fall under Voronov protection. Publicly. Permanently. Nobody in the Bratva can come after you without declaring war on my family.”
“I’m already under your protection.”
“Because I’m next to you. I can’t be with you twenty-four seven. Marriage makes it official.”
“And what do you get?”
“You.”
The answer lands too hard.
“People don’t get married because one of them has decided he wants possession of the other.”
“People get married for worse reasons every day.”
“I don’t want to be owned.”
“Then don’t behave like property.”
My head snaps up. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want an obedient wife, Tai. I’d be bored within a week. I’m thirty-fucking-seven years old. I know what I want.” His eyes move to my lips. My pulse reacts, because my body has abandoned every survival instinct it ever possessed.
I take another step back. “Thirty-seven. I’m twenty-nine. This isn’t happening.”
“You think I’m too old?” His eyes are wide with amusement.
“Trust me. If the Melnikovs get their hands on you and decide you are worth more to them as a trade, you will be married to an old vor in Siberia who will use your hot, young body as his personal plaything until he either dies, or it breaks you.”
The noise I make is full of horror and embarrassment. I hadn’t even contemplated a fate worse than death, but what he just described… “You’re lying. They wouldn’t.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No? Are you willing to risk your life on it?”
“Stop,” I say as tears prick my eyes. “Just stop. I know I got myself into this mess, but you are making it worse!”
“How?” He looks genuinely surprised by my accusation.
“By standing there and listing all the terrible things that could happen to me.” I wipe beneath my eyes before the tears fall.
“I know I’m in danger. I know the Melnikovs could find me.
I know the police could arrest me. I don’t need you adding forced marriage and sexual abuse to the list just so your offer sounds better. ”
His expression hardens. “I’m telling you the reality.”
“No, you’re frightening me into agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to frighten you. You’re already frightened.”
“That doesn’t make it acceptable to use it against me.”
He goes silent.
I hate the silence even more now. I hate that I’m crying now, despite my best efforts, and I hate that he sees it without knowing what to do. He can shoot a man in the face without hesitation, but tears have apparently defeated him.
“Tai—”
“Don’t. Just don’t say anymore.” I turn from him, my hands trembling as I pull the cardigan—his cardigan—tighter around me.
The silence is absolute behind me as I stare out of the French doors onto an immaculate lawn with guards patrolling it like some sort of prison. So absolute that I think he left.
Then, I feel him behind me. He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. “I’m sorry for my harsh words. But you have no idea what you are dealing with. Death is the easy way for you. They will want something else, compensation for their loss.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“So you understand. You are still in shock, walking around like this hasn’t happened, or happened to someone else.”
“That’s not true. I know what happened. I was there. I was making plans to leave.”
“Bad plans.”
“And marrying you isn’t a bad plan?”
His blue eyes heat up. “Actually, it’s a really good plan.”
“For who? You?”
“And you.”
“What happens if I say yes?” I don’t know what possessed me to say those words. They tumbled out before I could stop them.
Vadim goes still.
The question changes something in his expression. He stops enjoying the argument and gives me his full attention. “Then you will be protected, and I will have what I want.”
“And what if in three months or a year, or ten years, you decide I’m not what you want?”
“That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him.
I wipe my face with the cardigan sleeve. “Would you let me divorce you if I ended up hating you?”
“No.”
A laugh escapes me, strained and disbelieving. “At least you’re honest.”
“You asked what happens if you agree. You move into this house. You take my name. You attend family events when required. You accept security. You don’t disappear without telling me where you’re going.”
“So I report my movements.”
“You inform me.”
“Same thing with better branding.”
His jaw tightens, but he continues. “In return, I deal with the Melnikovs. I deal with the police. You won’t need to worry about money or employment unless you choose to work.”
“And sex?”
His focus drops to my mouth again. “What about it?”
“Would you expect it?”
“Every fucking day.”
I suck in a breath as my pussy enjoys those words far too much for my liking. It’s been too long since I had sex, longer still since I had great sex. I know Vadim won’t fail in this area. But can I sell myself to an attractive, sinfully sexy Bratva man just to protect myself?
“You understand me more than anyone else I’ve ever been involved with,” he says suddenly. “And after only a few hours. I hate noise. I hate bright lights.”
“I love noise and light.”
“Opposites attract.”
“What if I want to play my music at full volume?”
“There is a room for that. It’s sound-proofed.”
“You built a soundproofed room on the off chance someone would live here who likes loud music?” The jealousy hits me again, and I know he sees it.
“It wasn’t built to soundproof against music.”
I gulp. “What was it built for?” I ask, even though the answer seems obvious.
“Interrogations.”
The single word does nothing to help my nerves.
“You have an interrogation room in your house.”
“In the basement.”
“Of course it’s in the basement.” I wipe my damp cheeks again. “Do you torture people down there?”
“When necessary.”
“What qualifies as necessary?”
“When I need information, and someone refuses to give it to me.”
I stare at him. “You’re asking me to marry you while casually admitting you torture people under the same roof.”
“I’m not asking.”
“I can’t use that room. It’s disturbed that you would even suggest it.”
He frowns. “Is it?”
“Yes!” I hiss. “Jesus, Vadim.”
“Fine, you don’t want that room, I will build you another.”
“You are insane.”
“I know what I want, and I want you to be comfortable here.”
“That would require more than a room.”
“Tell me what it requires.”
I stare at him. He seems serious, which makes this worse. “You can’t renovate your house until I agree to live in it.”
“I can renovate whatever I want.”
“Of course you can. That wasn’t the point.”
“Then make your point clearer.”
“My point is that you don’t get to plan my entire life before I’ve decided what I want.”
He studies me for several seconds. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I need time to think.”
“Of a list?” His eyes light up, and the amusement is back.
“Yes, a list.”
“I’m sure you will find a notebook and pen in your room. Ivan loves a good notebook.”
I stare at him in utter disbelief. He is treating this like it’s normal.
Maybe it is in the Bratva. Who knows? The question is, am I brave enough to find out?