His hand comes up and my German warden steps in front of me. “No bruises for the ceremony!” she barks.
“You should watch your tongue, Morana Ivanova, you may be marrying into the Stepanov Bratva, but we are still family.” He leans closer and I force myself not to shrink away. “The old fuck you’re about to marry isn’t going to live much longer.”
“I’ll be sure to mention to my new husband that you’re looking forward to his death, Artim Ivanov.”
My cousin should be furious, trying to hit me again but instead, he leans back against the little antique couch. “You won’t have time for that tonight, my cousin,” Artim says happily. “You’re not aware of the Stepanov wedding night traditions, are you?” So happily. He is never this happy unless it involves a bottle of vodka and a couple of terrified strippers.
“The Stepanov men believe in showing their bride how things will be right away,” he says, leaning closer. I can see the madness dancing in his eyes. “They beat the shit out of their brides and then fuck them in front of their men, just to show the women who’s in charge. When he does that to you tonight, cousin, he’s showing his Bratva that you are lower than all of them.”
He could be lying. It would be just like Artim to do that to me. But remembering the flabby, heavy body of my “fiancé” pressed against me last night when he forced me to kiss him, I know he’s telling the truth. It was disgusting, like a horse licking ice cream.
The desire to throw up down the front of my wedding dress is stronger than ever.
“Thank you for the encouraging little speech, Artim Ivanov.” I smile sweetly. “Now, why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”
His hands curl into fists, and I can feel his need to hurt me. I don’t know if it's my stern prison warden slash hairdresser or the knowledge that something much worse is going to happen to me tonight, but he grins and leaves the room.
There will be no beloved family faces smiling at me, only guards to make sure I can’t escape. If my horrible cousin is right, tonight is about to be the worst one of my miserable existence.
But I can’t run. I tried that already. Once.
There’s a loud knock on the door and the stylist and I both jump a little, she burns the tip of my ear with the curling iron.
“What is it?” she shouts.
“The Pakhan wishes for his bride to wear a necklace from the Stepanov family collection.” The messenger’s boredom could not be any more obvious, even behind the closed door.
My warden opens the door and a Ruger is pressed against her forehead, pushing her back in.
“Ah, ah!” The gunman warns, “Don’t reach for that gun you have strapped to your ankle. Sit the fuck down.”
It’s as if pieces of reality broke apart and reassembled in some form that I don’t understand. There’s an alarmingly large man in a tux holding a gun on her as another man whose entire being screams “bodyguard” quickly locks the door and then zip-ties her to a chair and stuffs a gag in her mouth, taping it closed. Her eyes are bulging in fury and there’s a lot of muffled screaming happening.
The man rolls his eyes, his Russian accent disappearing as he speaks in English. “Knock her out.”
Her face goes beet red as the bodyguard quickly plunges a needle into her neck.
Turning to look at me, the man doesn’t lower his gun, but he holds up another hypodermic needle. “I can shove this into your neck and drag your useless body out the window. I can’t guarantee I won’t drop you a couple of times if I have to do that. If you’re bright enough to remember that I’m holding a gun and do what I tell you, I won’t knock you out.”
This dress is too tight. I can’t breathe. “What is- where are the guards- what-”
He grabs me by the throat and lifts the needle.
Maybe it’s because I’m terrified of being unconscious and helpless to stop whatever could happen to me. Maybe it’s because this giant in a tux is… offering me a choice? I shove against his chest.
“I won’t fight! Just don’t drug me.”
He leans closer. “If you scream or try to run away, I will put this needle through your eye, do you understand?” If his voice was a touch, I’d have frostbite, but I can feel the hate and fury simmering behind his words.
“You’re quite clear,” I hiss, moving reluctantly toward the window as he gives me a little shove. His man already has it open, struggling a bit with the stubborn old wooden frame.
Looking out, I flinch. “We’re two stories up!”
He slides out the window, hangs on the side for a moment, then lands gracefully on the balls of his feet. In dress shoes. Before I can make a run for the door, his bodyguard scoops me up and throws me out the window. The voluminous skirt of my dress hooks on something and slows my fall, and the giant catches me easily.
“Cut her loose,” he calls up softly, and the other man slices through the material before leaping down and landing almost silently.
He had to put that syringe away to jump, right? I’ll kick off my shoes and take off the second he puts me down…
