Stefan’s kind eyes grow hard, his jaw firming, before he turns to Nicolai and gives him instructions in Russian. One of the men protests, but I don’t even bother to look his way, trusting Nicolai and Stefan will make them leave.
Marissa stands to my right, wringing her hands. I ignore everyone but Stefan. Once the others have vacated, I nod to him. “Show us to our room?”Chapter 4CarolineHe hates me already, and we only just met. This was exactly what I feared and exactly what happened. I’ll never forgive Aren for putting me through this, for forcing my hand. I don’t know where I am or who I just married, or what’s in store for me from one minute to the next.
The men who escorted me leave, and this man—my husband—holds my arm in a grip so tight it hurts. The first time I truly looked into his eyes, I saw what I feared: anger and repulsion. Though it doesn’t surprise me, I can’t help the way it stings like tearing open a wound all over again.
I insisted I speak with the woman bearing witness to our vows, and they granted me that privilege. She seems nice enough, though our interaction was brief. She expected I wanted her to help fix my hair or do my makeup, but I don’t care about things like that. I knew it might be the only access I had to another woman who knew him, and I wanted her to tell me what my new husband was like. So I could prepare.
“My name’s Marissa,” she said. I lifted my veil so we could see each other, and she quickly schooled her surprise when she saw my scar.
“Caroline,” I responded. “I don’t need your help to prepare me for this farce of a ceremony,” I said bitterly. “We both know why I’m here. I want you to tell me what you know about my future husband.”
Her brows shot up in surprise, but she quickly recovered, nodding. “A fair question,” she said, then she hesitated, biting her lip. “Your future husband is a good man,” she finally said. “He was good to both me and my husband. He will treat you well, but you’d be wise not to defy him. He can be exacting and stern.”
I flinched at those words. I’m very familiar with punishment at the hands of angry men, and I hate that it’s the first warning she gives me. What will he expect of me? What does she mean by exacting and stern?
And what does she mean by good? A bowl of cereal for breakfast is a good breakfast. “Good” is the lamest adjective in the English language that tells me nothing at all about what I need to know.
As if on cue, shortly after we had our brief, hushed conversation, he shouted for us to come back.
Great. Way to make a good impression.
And his reaction when he lifted the veil… I’ll never forget it. He looked as if he’d just won a prize and found it to be rotten, his lip curled in disgust and whole body taut with anger. I don’t know why he cupped my face. Maybe to still his hand that wanted to reject me, when he no longer could. Maybe to pretend to show affection for me in front of my brother’s men. His touch felt unlike anything I’ve felt before, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. It wasn’t tender, but possessive.
We don’t even know one another, and he already grabs me and tosses me around like I’m a piece of property.
And hell, I guess I am now.
Property.
His to do with as he will. There is no escape from Bratva life if one is born into it. Both marriage and birth seal the inevitable fate.
I haven’t really even looked at him, I was so worried about the vows and his reaction to me. But now that we’re making our way to “our room,” as he called it, I sneak a surreptitious glance toward him.
He’s a large man, bulky and strong, and even though he wears a suit, beneath the formal attire I can tell he’s muscled and powerful. This doesn’t surprise me. All men in The Bratva are expected to be. Though I see no visible tattoos, I know the ways of the Bratva. He’ll be marked with their signature ink along his back and arms. I don’t know his role, but if he’s of higher rank, he’ll bear more ink than the rest.
His hair is a dark brown, on the longer side on top, and he sports a scruffy but well-trimmed beard. The eyes that looked at me seemed so dark they were nearly black, probing and intense, but now that he’s closer I can see flecks of gold. If he didn’t look so angry, he would be a handsome man, but I have to admit his bulk scares me a little. I’m sturdy but short, and he’s so much bigger than I am he moves me around as if I’m a cardboard cut-out, and not a living breathing human being. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me along, and I have no choice but to trot to keep up with his large, powerful strides.