Nikolai
Blyat. Fucking hell. Da tvoyu zh mat. There aren’t enough curse words in any language to describe the feeling of such a monumental fuck-up.
I stole the wrong woman.
Alissa Morozov is still out there. For all I know, she did get on that plane and is already in Vegas walking down the aisle with Maxim. Cold sickness pools in my gut. I screwed up. Monumentally.
You’re always the screw-up, the black sheep of the family.
I stare at the furious stranger in the wrinkled red silk gown, her brown curls a tangled mess, the side of her face chafed from being pressed against the rough lining of the car’s trunk.
Barefoot. Her shoes—Alisa’s, I guess—lie helter skelter.
I spike my hand through my hair and glance around the gas station that looks like it was abandoned thirty years ago. Only the lone car filling up at the pump marked CASH ONLY indicates it’s open.
“Well? Are you going to let me go?” she says.
There’s still a way to salvage this. I have to force her to marry me. A stranger. I can win. I can prove that I’m not the incompetent loser my brothers think I am. But only if this justifiably angry woman goes along with my insane plan.
“No,” I grit out.
“What, I’m supposed to piss myself here in this parking lot?” she demands. “I need a bathroom.”
“Such language.” I whip out a switchblade and flick it open. Her eyes widen. “Turn around.”
“I won’t scream. Promise,” she says.
“Good, because if you do I’ll cut your throat and stick your body back in that trunk. No one will ever find you.” With a few deft movements, I slice through the thick plastic binding her hands together. “Get your shoes.”
She bends over the trunk, giving me a fantastic view of her ass lovingly outlined in red silk.
My cock stirs. Yeah—I can work with this.
I’m still in the game. I can win control of the Orlov faction, but I’ve got to convince her to marry me and have my heir.
Coerced marriages aren’t enforceable, and if Maxim gets wind of a loophole he can exploit, he’ll do it without hesitation.
Once she has the high heels on, I grab her elbow.
“Slow down,” she complains after two steps. “I can’t walk in these things.”
With a grunt of annoyance, I scoop her into my arms. She’s solid and soft. Her breast presses against my chest.
“What are you—?” she barks.
“Carrying you. Obviously. I don’t suppose you have other shoes?”
“I did, back at the Morozov house. You know, where you kidnapped me?”
I set her on her feet. I’m tempted to swat her ass. Instead, I tuck my hand around the pistol’s handle and prod her with its muzzle. “Go straight to the counter and ask for the bathroom key. Try anything funny and you’ll regret it.”
Her chapped lips flatten, but she nods her agreement and pushes through the cracked glass door. “Can I have the key to the ladies’ room, please?”
“Customers only.”
I slide the gun back into its holster and reach into my inner pocket to peel off a hundred-dollar bill. “Pump four,” the grizzled man behind the counter says.
“This, too.” My captive turns to the cooler and pulls out a huge bottle of water. She shoots me a challenging expression.
“We’re not stopping every five miles,” I warn her.
“It was hot back there. I’m dehydrated.”
A pang of guilt hits me. Giving her basic necessities is a gesture of goodwill that I can easily make.
Wordlessly, I grab bags of chips and candy bars and throw them onto the counter.
I pocket the change, take the snacks and her by the arm, and drag her back out into the warm night.
“Straight to the bathroom and back. I’ll be at the pump. ”
She strides to the corner of the shabby building, stumbling once. I get into the car, watching until she lets herself in, then drive around and fill the tank. Afterward, I pull the sedan right in front of the bathroom door and kill the engine. She stops short when she comes out.
“Don’t even think about running.” I point. “Get in.”
“Front or back? Or are you going to make me ride in the trunk again.”
“Front seat, smartass.”
“I have to take the key back inside,” she says.
“Don’t be such a fucking girl scout. Leave it in the door and let’s go.” Her lips flatten, but she does as I say. We pull out of the lot in silence. “Where are you taking me?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Lovely. Always fancied a trip.”
A reluctant smile tries to tug at my lips. “Tell me your name.” A command, not a question.
“Sierra. What’s yours?” She doesn’t seem impressed with me. Anger at me seems to be overriding any fear she should rightly be feeling.
“Nik.” I surprise myself when my family’s pet name for me pops out of my mouth instead of Nikolai, the one I always give to strangers.
“Who is this Alisa you were trying to kidnap?”
I know I’m not going to win her over by refusing to answer her questions. But how much should I tell Sierra? Enough to convince her to marry a man she’s barely met. Nothing close to the full truth. “She’s my brother’s fiancée.”
“And you were kidnapping her, why?”
“Two reasons. I needed to prevent him from marrying her, and I needed a bride of my own.” I shrug and glance in the rearview mirror. No signs of police. Only three hours until we arrive in Las Vegas. I have that long to talk her into going along with my plan. “Do you have a government ID with you?”
Sierra leans forward and snaps open the glove compartment. She takes out a small purse. “Yep. I forgot my purse at a job once; it was unbelievably frustrating to get it back. So now I leave it in the locked car. Especially since the Mozorov house is gated.”
“Great. When we get to Las Vegas, we can go straight to the chapel.”
“Chapel?” She shifts in her seat, turning sideways to stare at me. “Why on earth would we go there?”
“To get married. Obviously.” She blinks at me.
Weirdly, I start singing that song, Going to the Chapel.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. The adrenaline of kidnapping a woman is wearing off and I’m turning into a real comedian.
I have to keep one eye on the road, but Sierra’s expression is priceless.
“Listen, this isn’t exactly how I saw myself popping the question, either. My mother…it’s complicated.”
Sierra reaches for a bag of chips and tears it open. She crunches on a handful and washes it down with a long swallow of water. Her elegant throat works. “You have to get married because of your mother?”
“Yes. My dad died recently. He was the CEO of a casino company.” The lie slips out as it has a thousand times before.
You can’t go around saying my daddy is the leader of a Russian organized crime faction that specializes in money laundering, illegal gambling, and dark web cyber-attacks—oh, and we buried him this morning.
You learn to describe the family business as a privately held entity involved in something mundane, like running an overpriced pleasure palace.
Sierra does not need to know that we’ve got rival bratva factions and the Feds breathing down our necks.
Or that I refuse to let the Orlov family lose everything we’ve built.
“Mom decided that instead of choosing his successor, she would turn it into a friendly competition between us brothers. First one married, wins.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Four. My oldest brother, Maxim, has been engaged to Alisa for several years now. It’s an arranged match. They’ve only met a few times, and I’ve never seen her. I didn’t know what she looked like.”
Not entirely true. Maxim has shown me pictures of Alisa, who also has long brown hair and big brown eyes.
If I’d thought about it for half a second I probably could have figured out that any resemblance was a passing one, but who else would be standing in Alisa’s closet and wearing her clothes? I just wanted to get out of there.
“What about the middle brothers?” she asks thoughtfully.
“They’re twins, and they’re undoubtedly hatching their own plans to get married as soon as humanly possible.”
“So what’s the deal, here? You want me to marry you so you can win the prize, then we get divorced?”
“Something like that.” I’ll scare her if I tell her that there will be no divorce. In the Orlov family, love is possession—and I have no intention of letting her go.