Sima Danilo grew up in a Bratva family. It makes sense for her to know who the major players are, how weddings work in that world. But Sammi Banks is a normal girl. She wasn’t born into organized crime. Hell, she shouldn’t even be able to pronounce the wordpakhan,let alone know what it means or that Petyr is one.
Think fast.“I mean,” I blurt with a forced laugh that couldn’t fool a toddler, “c’mon. Yours isn’t the first Bratva wedding that fell into my lap. I’ve seen enough to know who’s who.”
Petyr’s gaze leaves me feeling naked. Exposed and raw like I haven’t felt in years.
He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. “Anyhoo!” I give a nervous chuckle and mentally slap myself.Who even says “anyhoo” anymore?!“I didn’t think you were actually going to take it this far. I figured you just needed to save face in front of your guests. You know, make it look like everything went off without a hitch. Quietly get an annulment later. Like in Vegas.”
His silence stretches just long enough to make me regret opening my mouth at all.
Then he says, almost too casually, “My father’s will required me to be married. Legally. With an heir. If I wanted to keep my seat.”
I blink. Once, twice. “I’m sorry,” I say, raising my voice an octave too high, “anheir?”
“Yes.”
“As in, a baby?”
“That’s generally how heirs come about,” he says, calm as could be. “I could draw you a picture, if you’d like.”
“Nope. Got it.” Then I realize I don’t “got it”, like, atall.“Wait. Let me get this straight. You want me to?—?”
“I expect a marriage.” His gaze meets mine. Firm, unflinching. “A real one.”
I freeze.
What?
My breath stutters. My brain screeches to a halt. Suddenly, the limo feels airtight, all of the oxygen sucked out of it.
Sure, I thought he was hot. Hell, heishot. Objectively speaking, the man is sin in a designer suit. And yeah, maybe the idea of him touching me makes my skin tingle in a way that has nothing to do with mosquitoes.
But actually having sex with him? As his wife? With the goal ofmaking babies?
It’s a hundred different flavors of crazy.
I try to remember how to breathe. I pinch myself while I’m at it—you can never tell if you’re in a fever dream until you snap out with your nose clogged and cotton in your head.
But the scene doesn’t change. I’m still in the limo, Petyr is still watching me like a hawk, and he still hasn’t said “sike.”
He expects me to stay married to him.
Worse—he expects me to getpregnant.
My mouth opens. No words come out. Just a slight rattle like the rusty hinges on death’s door.
I turn to the window and stare out, hoping my face doesn’t betray the utter panic I’m feeling.
We pass a long stretch of security fencing, topped with barbed wire. A few seconds later, the limo slows, rolling easily through tall, spiky iron gates.
Somehow, I don’t see myself climbing over those unscathed.
Beyond the gates, a mansion comes into view. It’s freaking massive, like something out of a fairy tale.
Or a horror movie. Or a true crime documentary.
Worse, I still have no idea where we are. Only that we’re officially in enemy territory.
And I still haven’t figured out how the hell I’m going to get out of it.
