Page 7 of Hunted Bride

“Must’ve been one hell of a disappointing wedding night,” I tease Nik. He looks like shit. Hollow-eyed and messy. He glares at me.

“Fuck you, Rion.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He punches me in the bicep. He’s so miserable about losing Sierra that I don’t have the heart to keep ribbing him. Instead, I get to work trying to find her.

I contact Luka on our private network, and we get to work tracing where she went. Her name doesn’t appear in any airline or car rental databases. We hack into every hotel system in the city. Nothing. She hasn’t fled to a hotel for the night to let things between her and Nikolai cool down.

That leaves four possibilities, Luka texts me over our private coms. She could have taken a train. Or a bus. Worst-case scenario—she hitchhiked.

What’s the fourth possibility? I already know, but I want to hear him say it.

She’s still here in Las Vegas, hiding out.

She could have been abducted, I counter. Having met her, I don’t believe she’s a spy. Sierra is too warm and sweet. Too trusting. She’s kind of perfect for Nik.

We’d have gotten a ransom demand by now, Luka responds with cold logic. His specialty. Our baby brother and his new wife had a lover’s spat, and she’s gone off somewhere to sulk. Keep working on tracing her cell phone.

Hours later, Sierra’s phone pops up back in Los Angeles, where she was working as a housecleaner when Nikolai abducted her. Max, Nik, and I all climb into the family’s private plane. A little more than an hour later, we’re on the ground in Los Angeles, and by the time we get into the waiting car—sent by Max’s runaway fiancée’s family—I’m indulging in my favorite vice—spying on Milena.

She’s at work. Hacking into the library’s security system wasn’t as satisfying as putting up cameras myself, but the risk of my family—or hers—finding out what I’d done was too high. Starting an intra-faction war within the bratva is definitely not the leadership Mamochka is looking for.

I can’t marry Milena. I’m not looking to marry anyone. But even if I were, she is definitely off the table. Bratva matches are political. Feelings don’t enter into it. And I can’t have feelings for her—I’ve never met her. Not in person.

I only became aware of her when my father told me to “keep an eye” on the Morozov family. We’re allies. All that means is that we don’t actively try to kill each other. We have mutual business interests to protect. They spy on us, too.

The first time I saw Milena on the grainy security camera, she was being berated by her mother. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. This was long before I had wired her apartment with sound and video, when she was first heading off to college. There was no audio, I didn’t need it to understand what her mother was saying.

Why can’t you be more like your sister?

I was so fucking angry, watching the way her family treated her. No wonder she’s shy and lacks confidence.

The scene playing out before me now isn’t that different from the first time I saw her six years ago. Her boss is taking her to task, gesturing at a cart full of books that I’m guessing Milena didn’t have time to put away during her shift.

Does she argue? Advocate for herself? No. She ducks her chin and lets her long dark hair cover her face. Stares at the floor and mutters an apology.

When her boss leaves, she glances at the clock and sighs. Her shoulders slump. She pushes the cart out into the rows of shelving and starts putting away the books, even though her shift has ended and this will make her late for her class.

I have the insane urge to commandeer the car, drive down to the library, and remove every one of her boss’ nails with a pair of pliers.

Instead, I put my phone away. I’ll catch up with her later. I know exactly how to make my mouse feel better. I need to wait until we’re both alone—and it doesn’t take long before I get my chance.

4

MILENA

Without a car, I’m stuck taking public transit. Staying late to shelve the books that weren’t ready for me to put away in time for the end of my shift, plus not having wheels, makes me late for my archives class.

When I finally get to campus, I try to sneak into the back of the class, but it turns out that feeling invisible doesn’t actually make you invisible. I get a lot of dirty looks and a scolding from my Archives Management professor.

Miserably, I plunk down in a seat near the back. When the professor asks a question, I tentatively raise my hand, but he ignores me and calls on another student. She answers wrong. My response, if I’d been called on, would’ve been correct.

Once class is over, I slink home to my empty apartment. The minute I’ve dropped my bag on the chair and kicked off my shoes, my phone pings.

Take off your dress.

My stalker. Annoyed, but with a zing of excitement, I text back, Not even a hello first?