Page 10 of Hunted Bride

“I’ve got you for that,” I mutter darkly.

5

RION

Standing in the bathroom at the hotel where the Morozov family insisted on meeting us—renting a suite means our enemies, whether Federal or rival bratva factions, won’t have time to wiretap the room—with my dick in my hand and sticky cum all over everything, I blow out a breath.

This is getting out of control.

I’m on the cusp of doing something stupid.

I need more of her. I crave her particular mix of fear and raw sensuality.

I’m in the same city. There has to be a way to pull this off.

Reality is, we can’t be together. Marriage is political in the bratva. My bride will be arranged just like Maxim’s was. Going against the family’s wishes like Nikolai did is simply not done. He’ll pay a steep price for doing that. I don’t think he cares as long as he has Sierra.

So why did Mamochka order you all to find brides, a little voice inside my head pipes up.

Because she knew all Maxim needed to do to win was snap his fingers and marry Alisa.

He needed a push. A nudge. This is all an elaborate ploy to force her precious firstborn son into making good on the promises his parents made. The rest of us aren’t really contenders.

Or, more charitably, she’s acting out of grief and not thinking straight. Which is why, despite a momentary pang of angst and longing at the thought of marrying Milena, I am sitting out this stupid competition.

But with everyone distracted, and being in the same city as my prey, I can take the opportunity to get a taste of what I’ve craved for six long years.

Milena

In the morning, I forget that I am car-less and absently go down to the parking garage, key in hand, bag slung over my shoulder, carrying my trusty travel coffee mug that says Wingspan Matters on the side.

“Right.” I sigh, looking at my empty assigned space. “Hope you’re safe, Alisa. Wherever you went.”

No text message, no “thanks for giving me your only asset and inconveniencing yourself to help me out.” Typical.

I hustle out to the corner hoping to catch the bus, only to watch it zoom past without stopping. I’m still half a block away. A feral cry bursts out of me. Embarrassingly, my vision blurs. I’m usually very punctual. Between my now-inevitable tardiness arriving at work and the cart that wasn’t ready for me to put away until five minutes before my shift ended yesterday, the director could fire me.

It hurts to breathe.

I know I’ll be fine. Technically speaking.

I can ask my parents for money. They would say yes. I’m frugal. I don’t have expensive habits. But all my independence from their blood-soaked world ends if I lose my job. I don’t want to depend on them.

Lost in spiraling anxiety, I trudge on toward the bus stop.

I’ll take the next one. I fish my phone out of my pocket to call the library and let them know I’ll be coming in late this morning. Vaguely, I register someone walking a little too close and faster. I step aside to let the guy pass instead of crowding me, but he speeds up. I’m about to turn around and give him a piece of my mind when a hand clamps over my mouth and an arm like an iron bar comes around my stomach.

Panic flares inside me.

“Quiet, Mouse. Get in the car.”

My stalker.

Foolishly, for a second, I think he intends to give me a ride. That’s how fucked up I am—thinking the guy who’s been monitoring my every move for my entire adult life is my volunteer Uber driver.

No. He is kidnapping me.

He pushes me into the back seat of a black sedan, cop-style, with practiced ease. One palm on the top of my skull and the other twisting my arms behind my waist. My heavy bag falls forward, dragging me with it. I clutch my phone and my coffee mug with all my might, but he’s much stronger than I am, and both go clattering to the ground. The door slams. Sprawled across the seat, I sit up and try the latch.