Two years. I've been engaged to this man for two years, and I didn't even know it.
"I'll fight this," I say, even though I'm shaking. "I'll go to the police!"
"You'll do nothing." He crouches down in front of my chair, bringing those ice-blue eyes level with mine. "Because if you run, if you fight, if you cause me any trouble at all, I'll make your aunt and cousins pay your father's debts. Slowly. Painfully. Do you understand?"
The threat is delivered in that same calm, reasonable tone. Like he's explaining a simple fact of life.
I look into his eyes and see no bluff. No hesitation. He means every word.
"Why?" My voice breaks. "Why me?"
Something flickers across his face. Something dark and possessive that makes my stomach flip. "Because I decided you were mine. Two years ago, I saw you and I decided. And I always get what I want."
His hand comes up to cup my face. I freeze. Every muscle locks up, caught between the urge to pull away and something else I don't want to name.
But I'm trapped by the intensity in his eyes and the warm weight of his palm against my cheek. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, gentle in a way that contradicts everything else about him.
"You're going to be my wife," he says softly. "You're going to wear my ring and take my name and sleep in my bed. You're going to carry my children and give me everything I want. And you're going to stop fighting it,malyshka, because there is no escape. No choice. No out."
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know." He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing mine. "You'll love me eventually."
Then he kisses me.
His mouth takes mine like he has every right to it, his hand sliding to the back of my neck to hold me in place. His tongue pushes past my lips and—
Oh God. I'm kissing him back.
My body betrays me completely, melting into the kiss like I've been starving for it. My mouth opens wider for him. My hands clutch at his suit jacket instead of pushing him away. Heat pools low in my belly, unfamiliar and terrifying.
When he finally pulls back, I'm gasping. Dizzy.
"There she is," he murmurs, eyes dark with satisfaction. "Good girl. Your body knows who it belongs to even if your mind doesn't yet."
I want to slap him. Want to run. But I also want to kiss him again, and Ihatethat I want that.
"The funeral," I manage.
"It's almost over." He straightens, pulling me up with him. "I've handled everything. Your father's buried tomorrow morning. You'll attend, say your goodbyes, and then you come home with me."
"Home?"
"My estate. Where you'll live until the wedding."
The wedding. Right. Because I'm getting married. To this man. This stranger who bought me from my father like property.
"When?" I ask dully.
"Three days."
My knees buckle. He catches me easily, his arm around my waist, holding me up. I can feel how solid he is beneath the expensive suit. How much stronger. How completely outmatched I am.
"Three days?" I repeat. "That's not enough time—"
"It's plenty of time." His hand spreads possessively across my lower back. "I've been planning. Everything's arranged. The church. The dress. The guests. All you have to do is show up and say 'I do.'"
"And if I don't?"
