The Billionaire Boss's Captive Bride

Naomi

It was my wedding day.

I had dreamed of this day since I was a little girl. I dreamt of what I would wear. I dreamt about my father smiling at me with tears in his eyes as he walked me down the aisle. I dreamt about my mother blinking away tears of joy when she saw me in a veil that floated down my back, the gossamer material caressing my bare shoulders. My best friend Ilsa would giggle and carry on as she helped me put on the garter belt, and we would toast the happiest day of my life with champagne and wine while my hair and makeup were being done.

It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

I drew in a shuddering breath and looked at the woman staring back at me in the full-length mirror, searching for any remote sign of happiness in her eyes.

There was none. I couldn't even fake it, and as an actress, I prided myself on faking just about any sort of emotion.

Instead, the woman in the mirror stared back with other emotions: dread, apprehension, and fear.

My father wasn't here. My mother wasn't here. Ilsa wasn't here. I was alone, and the only person who had once accompanied me had already left the room, her tasks complete.

Maybe it was for the best.

Because if they knew what lay in store for me, their hearts would break. They'd beg for me to be released from the terrible fate that awaited me, and if I knew anything about my husband-to-be, he'd force them to watch as he claimed me at the altar.

I touched one of the curls draped over my shoulder, teased and styled so solidly in place that a hurricane couldn't move them. Outwardly I was the picture-perfect bride. No expenses had been spared. The undergarments I wore under the dress were lace and silk, probably the most expensive set I had ever put on.

The dress, well, it wasn't the one I would have chosen, but it exuded the wealth and power that I was about to marry into.

But no amount of perfection could hide the ugly, horrific truth.

This marriage was a lie. And I was a captive bride in all but name.

It had all started when I was trying to help my best friend Ilsa, a detective with the LAPD, and her husband Roman, don of the Marchetti Mafia, save a young Russian girl-Sveta Orlov-who had been ripped from her family at the expense of her maniacal father. Since I was the only one that Ilsa knew who spoke Russian, they had brought her to me, and I had helped concoct a foolproof plan.

Unfortunately, the plan had gone sideways before my part had come up. Sveta had been killed. Ilsa and Roman had been forced to take down her father by themselves, along with all who were involved.

I'd thought that would have been the end of it.

I was so wrong.

Now I was about to marry a monster.

Gavril Kirilenko.

The very name sent a shiver down my spine. I didn't know anything about him other than he was dangerous and powerful. He had made me do terrible, shameful things in the short time that I knew him. He had stripped away my dignity and made me aware of just how powerless I was in his hands.

The things he made me do...Oh God. I didn't want to think about them.

And now, I was going to marry him.

What other choice did I have? I thought about telling him the truth, but based on what he said to me, based on what he had made me do, I knew that a worse fate than being his wife awaited me if he found out the truth.

And so, I had to pretend to be Sveta until I could find a way out of this. I had no means of contacting anyone. My cell phone had been taken away when I was kidnapped from my apartment a few days ago. Aside from Ilsa and my agent, no one else was going to be looking for me.

Well...there was one other person. But there was no way in hell I wanted him to find me.

Honestly, I had a pretty sad life outside of my social media pages. Those showed a woman who enjoyed life, one who seemed to have it all: money, influence, popularity, self-confidence.

In reality, I didn't have any of those things. Most of the clothing I wore was from thrift shops all around LA. I just knew which ones received the leftovers from the production companies and celebrities.

Popularity was easy when you were going to all the places that everyone else wanted to go to. I had the gift of gab, just about able to talk my way into anything.

Of course, it didn't hurt that I had a pretty face, or at least that was what they told me. My long blonde hair was just like any other girl in LA; my pale body helped me stand out among the fake tanners that I usually shared an interview room with.

I kept my body in top shape because getting acting gigs required that I look my best.

All that my looks had gotten me was a few B-rated films that had paid enough for me to pay my rent in LA, but so far, nothing had panned out to pay more.

A few of the gigs that my agent had found were promising, but now all that was my past. I had missed those appointments. And if anything, Chuck had probably written me off as another blonde bimbo lost to LA.

If he only knew that I was about to play the biggest acting role of my life.

The door opened behind me, and I lowered the veil, obscuring my features from everyone. I had to do this. I had to make sure that no one believed me to be anyone else other than Sveta, not until I could find a way to contact Roman or Ilsa to get me the hell out of this mess.

Turning, I tried to portray the meek girl who knew nothing about the world she had been thrust into. They knew me as a girl who spoke no English, and it had proven difficult for me to maintain the air of speaking flawless Russian.

Thank God for my electives in college or I would be screwed.

The man at the door held out his arm and I took it, keeping my hand from trembling as I laid it on the sleeve of his suit coat. The church I had been brought to earlier was one I recognized, the Holy Transfiguration Russian Orthodox Church. It was one I had filmed a soap opera episode in once before, a gorgeous sanctuary that would be on any bride's most wanted list for a perfect wedding day.

My dour-faced guide moved me before a set of heavy wooden doors, and my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. This was it. There was no turning back.

What would Ilsa say about this? Would she urge me on? Doubtful. She would tell me that I was crazy and have Roman whisk me somewhere to hide.

A sudden rush of tears assaulted my eyes and threatened to ruin my makeup. I blinked them back, clearing my vision once more. I wasn't going to cry. Not today. I had already cried enough since I had been taken. Tears didn't solve anything, and they sure as hell weren't going to get me out of this.

The doors opened and I was forced to step forward onto the shiny lacquered floor, looking up at the vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings that were at the end of a long aisle. Surprisingly the wooden pews were packed with guests, all standing and turning as the pipe organ music swelled. None of their faces were familiar, and my heart wrenched in my chest.

I wanted my family here. I wanted my friends here.

Hell, I wanted a man who actually cared about me waiting at the end of the aisle.

I wanted to feel happiness instead of emptiness and dread. I wanted to cry tears of joy instead of tears of fear.

This was supposed to be a day I wanted to remember. Not a waking nightmare I wanted to forget.

Somehow I made myself move down the aisle, my head held high, the only sounds the music in the large sanctuary. No one spoke, no one whispered, as if they were frozen in place, surprised that they were attending a wedding after all.

The closer I got, the tighter the knots grew in my stomach. He was there, waiting for a woman he thought he was going to wed.

Instead, he would be getting an actress that had no ties to any Bratvas. He would be marrying a poor girl from a blue-collar family that could barely rub two coins together some days, a woman who could give him none of the power he was looking for.

Even if I did lose my life over this, at least the biggest joke was about to be played on him.

I took the steps up to the altar and turned, my train cascading down the steps behind me. Only then did I allow myself to look at my soon-to-be husband-Gavril Kirilenko.

His hands were clasped before him, the silver ring on his right hand catching the low lamplight. He was dressed in a black suit, his white shirt a bright contrast to his tanned skin underneath. His dark brown hair was slicked back on his head, exposing his wide forehead and a set of high cheekbones dusted with the beginnings of a beard. Gavril's eyes were almost gray in color and as he gazed at me intensely, I fought the urge to run back down the aisle screaming.

There was no warmth in his stare. No affection. No love. The only thing I saw staring back at me was inky coldness. The man before me wasn't a kind man. I had already found that out in more ways than I'd liked.

I doubted there was a bone in his body that could even understand what kindness was.

My heart wanted to hang onto the fact that Roman, Ilsa's husband, had been the same way. She had given me their complete, sordid tale and how he had turned from a cold-blooded killer to a man that cared about her and their unborn child above all else.

But as I looked at Gavril, I knew I couldn't cling to that hope. This man was born and bred to be harsh, and nothing was going to change that.

Least of all me.

A monster like him shouldn't be so damn gorgeous. Gavril filled out his suit nicely, from his broad shoulders to the tapered waist and everything in between. As my eyes roamed over his impeccably dressed form, my stomach tightened at the memory of what he was capable of.

A memory that I would never admit to liking.

Gavril was power, danger, and sex all wrapped up.

And in a few moments, he would be my husband.

No, I reminded myself. Not my husband. Not Naomi Spencer's husband. He was marrying Sveta Orlov.

The priest cleared his throat, and Gavril gave him a curt nod.

"Begin," he said in Russian.

Thank God I had taken that Russian class in college. I thought it was a useless elective years ago, and now, that useless class might be the only thing that was keeping me alive.

The priest started, and Gavril took my hand in his. His touch was warm, and I tried to fool myself into believing that it was reassuring.

But I knew better.

There was nothing soft about this man, nothing that was going to make me feel at ease. He'd made me do unspeakable things before this day. And the thought of what he'd do after his ring slipped on my finger sent a shudder down my spine.

A few times I was forced to kneel before the priest with Gavril, keeping my eyes downcast so he couldn't see the indecision there behind my veil. I wasn't very religious and had only attended a handful of Catholic weddings in my day, but never a Russian Orthodox one.

Everything was different, and I didn't understand the protocol. Each time, though, Gavril helped me rise, his hand tight on mine as if he knew my thoughts.

What more could he expect? He was marrying me without my consent. Any woman would want to run away from this madness!

"And now the rings," the priest finally said, balancing two circles of gold on his Bible. My breath caught as I stared at them, wondering why I thought he wouldn't wear one. Gavril didn't seem like the type of man who wanted to be known as having a wife, but then again, I wasn't just going to be a wife.

I was going to be a means to an end, a source of power for him. Little did he know that nothing he was doing was going to help him in any way.

Sveta was dead. Her father was dead. Gavril wasn't going to get anything out of this marriage.

A bubble of laughter nearly escaped me at the thought, but I choked it back as Gavril reached for the smaller circle. He took it and slid it onto my hand. The ring itself was simple and elegant. I could see the scroll of designs on the metal and realized it looked older than I first realized.

It was a family heirloom.

The cool metal immediately warmed on my finger, and even though it was light and airy, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Like a shackle that bound me to him.

Forever.

My fingers trembled as I took the solid gold ring from the priest and turned to Gavril. He held out his hand, and I hesitated. There were so many other things I would have liked to do with the ring, and each one would have resulted in my death. For a moment, I toyed with the idea that I could still end this. That I could choose to go out on my own terms.

But powerless and wordless, I slid the ring on his finger, past his scarred knuckle, until it rested at the base.

I barely had time to draw in a breath before Gavril's hand cupped the back of my neck and pulled the veil back from my face. His eyes were dark with intent.

I gasped right before his lips closed against mine, and his hungry tongue pushed into my mouth, swallowing my small yelps of resistance. His rough hand pulled me closer, and I felt his insistent heat throbbing against the thin fabric of my dress-a promise of what was to come.

In sickness and in health.

Till death do us part.

I was his.

To own. To use. To ruin.

Forever.

That was it. We were married.

Gavril

One Day Earlier

I braced my hands on my desk and listened to Sveta's rants as she was escorted down the hall. I hadn't expected her to react like that. I had expected tears, maybe even some begging. But she had reacted to my plan like a hellion, fighting my men and threatening to kill me.

Maybe she had more of Stanislav in her than I realized. I expected a woman who would be afraid of me, one that would be crying for her father, a father she never knew, to come save her.

Instead, I found a woman who had defiance in her eyes, and hell, it stirred my cock nearly immediately. Were it not for protocol, I might have stripped her then and there, bent her over and used her until she was a trembling mess.

A woman with fire was dangerous, but also a hell of a good time.

In that moment, I almost wished that she wasn't to be my wife. I didn't want excitement in my marriage. I didn't even want to think about her other than to finish my plan and have her give me a child.

That was I planned for her.

Now that I had her in my home, I wanted to marry her immediately to ensure that my plan was going to stick.

Well, and to bury myself deep between her legs and make her scream until her throat bled.

Taking in a deep breath to calm myself, I walked away from the desk to the window that overlooked a small garden. The fountain shone in the evening light. This home wasn't to be our final stop, but it had been my compound for the last few days as the time grew near to taking Sveta.

It was closer to the city than my mansion was and put me right where I needed to be.

I had Sveta in my grasp. It was hard to believe that my plan had gone off so flawlessly. Anatoly had done his job well. And now I was eager to move on to the next step.

More importantly, I wanted to squelch any notions that I couldn't pull this shit off. I was always underestimated, and if Sveta thought that I was going to take any leniency on her because she showed some fight in her, then she was wrong.

They were all wrong.

Still, it didn't matter what sort of person Stanislav's daughter was. I wasn't going to change the course of my plans. For months I had thought about this from every angle, trying to find some hole in it.

Even my brigadiers thought I was crazy for going this far. But it was a necessary step. Fortune favored the bold, and this would be the boldest thing any Bratva Pakhan did. With Stanislav and his son Dimitri's deaths at the hands of the Marchetti twins, the pieces couldn't have fallen in place better than they had. His Bratva-the Krasnaya Bratva-had no leader, and no one was going to point them in the direction of power.

No one until me.

I would marry Sveta and assume my rightful place on top of both the Krasnaya and Belaya Bratvas, so that I could assume the power I craved

The power that I deserved.

A smirk crossed my face as I sat back in my chair, waiting for Anatoly to return. He had been the one to grab Sveta from LA, following her into an apartment that she'd been stashed in and bringing her to my home in the city.

I wondered if she'd made as many threats toward Anatoly as she had to me. The girl was a fighter, no doubt about that. From the moment she saw me, I knew that she'd never love me. That she'd never be devoted to me.

Which suited me just fine.

I didn't need her love. I didn't want her devotion.

The only thing I wanted was to pry her legs apart and plant my child in her womb. Once our bloodlines were mixed, then no one would be able to undo it.

No one would be able to disavow my claim on the Krasnaya Bratva.

It was an age-old remedy to protecting bloodlines and conquering claims to the dynasties of the past. Hell, families did it every day to ensure that they were part of the elite. They married off their children like cattle so that they could strengthen their empires.

What I would be doing was no different.

Whether my bride-to-be was willing mattered not. I'd have her dragged down the aisle if need be.

If she played her role correctly, she wouldn't even need to be in the same bed as me. I didn't need her to satisfy my lust. I had many others that would jump at the chance to share my bed, and there was no doubt in my mind that once I had Sveta a few times, I would grow bored of her.

No woman held my attention for long these days.

I certainly didn't expect my wife to do so either.

Anatoly appeared a moment later, looking as if he had gone to war with a tiger and lost. "She's in her room again."

I chuckled as I saw the red marks on his face. "Are you all right?"

He shrugged his massive shoulders in indifference. I knew personally that he had suffered worse injuries before, from both men and women alike.

"She's a fighter. That's good. Maybe she will give you strong sons and daughters."

It was. I could appreciate her willingness to fight. It would serve her well in her new life. "I want her transported to the mansion. She needs to prepare for the wedding."

Anatoly arched a brow. "Are you certain you want to go through with this? Poroshenko, Puzanov, Kovyalyov, and the rest will not have kind words to say about it. Especially since they know exactly what you'd do to their Pakhan's precious little daughter."

I shrugged at the names of Stanislav's brigadiers. "Leave that to me. Those men understand protocol."

"Join or die," Anatoly finished the thought.

"Da."

There were very few men who would be able to question my intentions like this and live to tell the tale. Anatoly Danilov was one of them. Some would call him a friend, and others would call him my private killer on a short leash. The truth was somewhere in between. We had been through a lot of shit together. He had been there when I had taken over, and he was the one person I could trust with my life.

And most importantly, the man stuck to the thieves' code. He had honor. True honor-not the kind motivated by money or power.

I pushed away from the desk. "Make certain that the boys know that she is not to be touched. Or I will deal with them personally."

Anatoly chuckled. "I'm sure that was clear the first hundred times you said that, Pakhan."

A mirthless chuckle escaped my lips. "It never hurts to make sure that orders are clear."

"Koneshno," he replied.

Despite his size, Anatoly was a year younger than I was. I had given him a life he wouldn't have had otherwise in Russia. I'd brought him off the streets of St. Petersburg and elevated him here in the States. He was the brigadier of brigadiers. A man who took care of the finer details, which left me to handle the broader strokes of the Bratva's businesses: imports, exports, new business deals, and strategic marriages.

Even my own.

Speaking of. It was time to turn my attentions elsewhere now that Sveta was safely under my roof. "Come, we have to go to the docks."

Anatoly and I walked out of the home and to the waiting car, where I slid into the leather seat with Anatoly flanking my right. Some Pakhans relied completely on their guards and associates to protect them. And I knew that Anatoly would give his life for mine.

Me? I preferred a more equal approach at times. I would do everything in my power to keep Anatoly alive. He would never let me, of course, as his job was to keep me protected.

While Anatoly was very handy with knives, I had my own already strapped to various parts of my body, skilled in both hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. I had been raised on the ruthless streets of post-Soviet new Russia, where violence was the only language that people understood.

It was a life that no one in America could ever understand. I had killed my first man when I was a teenager with nothing more than my bare hands and a few seconds' worth of time. And he had done his best to kill me.

The car pulled out of the drive and into LA traffic, a city that had become my second home. While I preferred the allure of my homeland, there were far more opportunities in LA. Here, I was the boss and could control my shipments without the interference of the Russian government.

Also here were the Marchetti and Krasnaya Bratvas, two of my rivals that I couldn't very well just let rule LA without my interference.

And interfere they did.

"Shipments will come easier now that Krasnaya and Marchetti are in disarray," I remarked, stretching my legs.

"There will be trades up for grabs now," Anatoly replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "It might not hurt to expand and line our pockets with more money."

I frowned, thinking about the fall of the Krasnaya Bratva to the Marchetti Mafia.

Stanislav had grown old, and in his advanced age, he had grown complacent. That had been his downfall.

There was a moment that I thought Roman Marchetti would step in and do exactly what I was planning to do. But then he'd started a war, all for a woman, and nearly set all of Los Angeles on fire with that.

Fucking idiot.

There was no one who could make me step away from my destiny, no one that could make me want to give up my Bratva and the power I was going to get from marrying Stanislav's daughter.

Still, I had to thank Roman for doing what he did. After all, he had rid the world of Stanislav Orlov. Hard to believe that the man had done all that work, lost all those men-his own twin brother among them-all for a woman.

Well, no matter.

Once I put the ring on Sveta's finger, even Stanislav's staunchest supporters would have no choice but to follow my lead.

I just needed to jump on my plan before anyone else found Sveta and did exactly what I was planning to do. I doubted that with the chaos Roman had left in LA, anyone would have thought to take the only surviving member who could hold the key to folding the Krasnaya Bratva into their organization.

But then again, until just a few weeks ago, nobody even knew that Sveta Orlov existed.

Stanislav was an old-school man who had dodged the KGB. It didn't surprise me he could keep such things secret.

And now he was dead. And in a few more days, my plans would be complete. I would let everyone know that I had married her. Then, I would be stepping into the old man's shoes and combining the two Bratvas together. Krasnaya and Belaya-red and white-old foes back in Russia, brought under a single roof.

It was almost poetic.

"You know," Anatoly remarked as the car weaved its way to the docks. "There is a good chance that both sides will just end up killing each other the moment you announce the wedding."

"The Krasnaya Bratva is on shaky legs at best," I told him, watching as the city passed. "And without a leader, they will be looking for some order, someone to build them back up to their former glory."

"Tell me how you are going to keep your wife from killing you," Anatoly smirked. "Because she doesn't seem to be a fan of yours right now."

I hid my smile. Sveta wasn't a fan of me at all. But that didn't matter.

In time she would come to realize that marrying me was the right thing to do in her situation. The only thing she could do.

I would be her provider, and once I planted my child in her belly, her role would be complete. Sure, she would stand by my arm on occasions when she needed to and play the part of the obedient wife. But I would ultimately cast her aside.

"She looked older than I thought," Anatoly continued as the car passed through the gates to the dock on the far side of town. "I thought she was supposed to be young."

"It doesn't matter," I bit out, straightening my cuffs and wiping my hands on my pants.

I didn't even fucking care what she looked like as long as she got pregnant. Sveta had been hidden in Ukraine if stories were to be believed, and that country was going to hell in a handbasket. It didn't surprise me that she would look older. War did that to people.

And at any rate, her father would have married her off anyway, using her as a pawn to make him a successful business match to bring in more money and alliances.

In this world, marriages weren't built on love but on mutual interest. The wives needed not be willing. They just needed to be fertile.

My marriage to Sveta would be no different.

The car slowed to a stop and Anatoly climbed out first, holding the door so I could step out into the late afternoon myself, buttoning my suit coat as I did so. The smell was ripe with the sea and fish, the sounds of seagulls crying in the distance grating on my nerves.

I needed a drink and a few hours in bed, but business couldn't wait. "We need to look into alternate supply routes," I finally said to Anatoly. "Give them something to work for."

"Who?"

I looked over at Anatoly. "The Krasnaya brigadiers-Poroshenko and the rest of them-when they come to join us."

If they didn't, well, they wouldn't walk the earth much longer. Like I said: join or die. The simplest choices were the best choices.

Anatoly just shook his head and walked off to find those that were supervising the shipment's arrivals.

He thought my plan was shit, but it was so much more than that. My plan was going to work, and in a few more days, there would be no going back. In a few more days, I would have claimed Sveta, put my child in her belly, and the name Krasnaya Bratva would never be uttered from anyone's lips ever again.

All without a single shot fired.

Naomi

One Day Earlier

I schooled my emotions from those in the car as it wound up the steep driveway high above the city. I knew that they expected a scared Russian girl who had no idea what was going on, and it was hard to maintain that persona.

Okay, maybe not that hard.

I was scared, terrified at what might happen in the event that the man who took me found out that I wasn't who he thought I was.

He didn't look like the type that would laugh at a joke or even crack a true smile. And whatever evil thing he had planned for Sveta? He was definitely expecting it to go his way.

I looked out of the window, down at the twinkling lights below us. I had briefly thought about putting up a fight with the guard that had come to get me, noting that it wasn't the one who had taken me to his boss earlier.

He had gotten a face full of raked nails, trying to get me to go back to that prison of a room. He had glared at me immediately after, and for a moment I thought he was about to do something terrible.

Instead, the guard had pushed me into the car and climbed in, either afraid that I would shout out or bound by some instructions to make sure I was not to be harmed.

Either way, I wasn't getting out of this, not by myself.

The car pulled up to a large mansion that dwarfed all the houses I had visited in my lifetime, and the door was opened for me.

"Come," the guard said in gruff Russian, motioning for me to get out of the car.

I climbed out into the balmy night, staring up at the mansion with some trepidation. This was probably my new prison-rather, Sveta's new prison with her soon-to-be new husband.

It was all just crazy to think about what was going on and what the poor girl would have had to deal with if she was still alive. I wanted to say that I was made of stronger stuff than her, having lived through some shit in my life.

But Sveta? She was just a child! No more than seventeen when she was ripped from everything she knew. If she were in my place, she'd be terrified out of her mind.

Maybe it was good that she had died so that she wouldn't have to live with a monster who clearly had only one thing on his mind for her.

"Sveta Stanislavovna."

The formal patronymic greeting almost caught me off guard. I turned, remembering that was supposed to be my formal name, and saw a man standing on the steps to the mansion. He was dressed in a severe gray suit, his hair neatly combed back off his forehead. "Good evening. I'm Ivan Popov," he announced, nodding in my direction. "I'm Mr. Kirilenko's personal driver. Welcome to the mansion."

I lifted my chin but kept my mouth shut, knowing that I needed to be careful with how and to whom I responded.

Ivan didn't seem surprised at my lack of response, gesturing toward the door. "Please, if you will follow me," he answered in beautiful Russian that I could only wish came out of my mouth.

I glanced back at the car, thinking about running back in. But the guards would only drag me back out. But at the same time, I knew that once I walked into that mansion, it would be all over.

My life, my identity, everything.

It would be easier right now for me to walk off the nearest cliff.

Instead, I walked up the stairs and through the door, the smells of lavender and roses filling my senses.

A wiry older woman was standing in the foyer, her pepper-colored hair pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a black dress with no adornment, reminding me somewhat of a nun without her scarf.

"Good evening, Sveta Stanislavovna," she said, her voice grating, and her mouth pursed as if she had tasted something sour. "Welcome to your home. I am Vera Pushkin, the maid and caretaker of this property. I hope you will find it to your liking."

Her voice was hollow, letting me know that she didn't approve of me being here and could not care less if I liked the place or not. I wondered just how much they had been privy to the plan. "I want to go home," I said softly, my voice breaking.

No emotion flickered over her face. "You are home now, devushka." Girl.

That was what I was reduced to.

"Come," Vera said. "I will show you your room."

Vera turned and started up the beautiful staircase that led to the second landing, the wrought-iron railing scrolled with flowers and vines. A large chandelier hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling above my head and the floor was white marble, spotless enough that I could see my reflection in it.

Still, there was something sterile about the mansion, something that made me wonder if the walls had ever heard laughter or happiness.

Swallowing, I started up the stairs, my hand shaking as it gripped the railing.

Run, my conscience screamed at me, trying to get me to turn around.

But I didn't. I couldn't.

Soon, I found myself on the second landing, looking down at Ivan, who was watching my every step. Did he see something that would make me worry that I was faking everything? I knew I was surrounded by people that were going to do nothing but judge me, even hate me because of who my supposed father was. They were going to do everything that they could to follow Kirilenko's plans, no matter at what cost.

I had no friends in this place.

The second landing's floor was carpeted, so plush that my beat-up Converse shoes sank into it with each step I took. This was opulence beyond measure, a statement to something. Most people did it because they were compensating for something they couldn't have or didn't have.

I doubted that Kirilenko was that sort of man. He didn't look like someone who was missing anything in his life.

I was marched down a long hall to the end, where a door stood open with light spilling out from inside.

Vera pushed open the door wider. "This is your room."

I stepped inside, and the sight took my breath away. A massive four-post bed dominated the center of the room, covered in an ice-blue comforter that made it look like it was a cloud. There was a sitting area off to the right, near the open balcony doors, and another door to the left, which likely was an in-suite bathroom or a walk-in closet.

The room was painted white, the carpet white, and the furniture a heavy dark oak. It was a mix of elegance and masculinity.

"This is your washroom," Vera continued, crossing over the room to the door to the left and throwing it open. "Everything, you will see, has been stocked in anticipation of your arrival. The wardrobe is full of clothing that is your size, and the dresser is where you will find your underthings and lingerie."

I was vaguely listening to her, noting that the dresser was covered with makeup and other feminine things that every woman would find in their own room.

Holy shit...How long had Kirilenko been planning this?

"This." Vera pointed to a button on the wall near the bed. "Is to summon me. I have staff around the clock to see to your needs. Your meals will be delivered unless the master wants you to dine with him. I will give you the schedule of meals tomorrow."

Master?

My head was reeling from what was happening. I thought the mansion was going to be my prison. No, it would appear that I wasn't even going to get that. This bedroom was going to be everything in my life.

"Get some rest," Vera said as she walked to the door. "He will be home soon."

I waited until she closed the door before crossing the room and trying the handle.

It was exactly what I figured was going to happen.

I was locked in from the outside.

Panic started to rise in my throat, but I tamped it down, turning away from the door. This wasn't the time to panic. I needed to find a way out.

My feet took me to the balcony, and I stepped out into the night, gasping as I looked out over the twinkling lights of LA below. It was a significant drop. The balcony didn't just hang over the grounds like I thought it would, but over a sheer cliff.

Below, the inky darkness beckoned me to try.

To my right and left were the grounds, and even in the darkness, I could see the guards patrolling the lawn. There was no sound coming from anywhere.

But that wasn't the most startling thing. It was the barbed wire fence that graced the property in the distance, the sharp edges peeking up over the hills along the edge of the territory.

From the outside, the mansion probably looked just like the others: a high stone wall encircling the property and hiding the interior from prying eyes.

But from the inside, it looked like a fortress capable of withstanding a siege.

Drawing in a breath, I clenched the stone railing between my hands, wishing I had the balls to just jump off the balcony and pray I would go quickly. It would be so easy to do.

Did Kirilenko plan this?Did he put me in this room so that I'd be tempted to try? What would Kirilenko think if I did just that?

Would he even care?

No, I thought. He would care.

I would ruin his plans. And I was certain he had other plans lined up in case I did something as foolish as this. Hell, maybe he even had another woman to kidnap.

But then I thought about Ilsa, the child that she carried in her belly, thought of my parents, and knew that I couldn't give up.

I couldn't jump. I had my true family to live for, and I knew that they would be devastated if I was gone. Even more so, Ilsa would want to find out who had made me jump, and I couldn't ruin the happiness she had found.

I couldn't. I would die ten times over rather than be the cause of other people's sorrow.

Turning away from the cliff, I went back inside, systematically opening the wardrobe and drawers. As Vera had said, they were full of clothing. The labels in the wardrobe alone must've been an eye-watering expense. To say nothing about the designer shoes that were lined up just right at the bottom: Louboutins, Louis Vuitton, and even some Stuart Weitzmans.

The drawers were full of expensive silk lingerie, from racy thongs that were no more than dental floss to delicate gowns that slid through my fingers as I touched them.

And designer bags-each one easily tens of thousands of dollars-in every shape and size to complement the different outfits.

This was every woman's dream wardrobe.

I shut the drawer and yanked open the rest, finally finding normal clothes in the very bottom. Even here, the casual athletic clothing was luxury brands like Lululemon.

I pulled out a set and walked into the bathroom, marveling over the stone walk-in shower with multiple showerheads and a sunken tub that was big enough for two. The image of a naked Kirilenko pushing me against the shower walls as his rough hands forced apart my legs crossed my mind, and I turned away.

My cheeks heated. I knew there would come a time that he would want to consummate our marriage, to stake his claim on Sveta.

What would I do then?

I wasn't a virgin, hadn't been for a number of years, but given the conversations I'd had with Sveta right before her death, I imagined she was pretty green in the nature of passion and sex.

Which meant I would have to find some means to explain it or tell the truth. My stomach knotted at the thought, and I removed my clothing quickly, ignoring the full-length mirror on the wall as I did so. I didn't want to see myself, to see the woman who was living a lie.

After pulling my hair up and brushing my teeth, I climbed underneath the fluffy comforter and lay in the dark, hot tears leaking out of the sides of my eyes. I didn't sob aloud, afraid that there might be bugs in the room, listening to my every movement. It hurt to know that I might be looking at my death at some point in the next few weeks.

Maybe the cliff didn't seem so ominous after all.

** *

Morning came all too quickly. I barely opened my eyes as the door opened and Vera marched in, carrying a tray of food. The smells made my stomach rumble in agreement.

"Up," she snapped, setting the tray on the bed. "The master wants to see you downstairs within the hour."

"I'm not a child," I replied in Russian, barely remembering to do so at the last minute.

"If you were," she answered, "Then I would have a bigger problem with his plans. I will come back for you in thirty minutes. Wear something pleasing."

She was gone before I could respond and I cautiously lifted up the silver dome from the plate, finding steaming eggs and two slices of bacon along with some fruit. There also was one slice of toast, perfectly browned, and a small pot of coffee, with various creamers and sugars to put in it.

Heaven on a silver tray. God, I hadn't eaten since I'd been taken.

Heedless of the time, I devoured the food and drank all the coffee before finally rising from the bed and digging through the wardrobe to find something that wasn't going to show a lot of skin. I finally settled on a romper that showed off my legs and bared one shoulder before crossing over my breasts to gather at the other shoulder. With my hair down, I looked like the woman he expected me to be:

A young, innocent Sveta, frightened and unsure of who this man was.

When Vera knocked on the door again, I slid on a pair of flats. "You look like an American," she sneered, motioning for me to hurry. "I suppose it will have to do."

I mean, I was. What did she expect me to wear? Stiletto heels?

Numbly, I followed her down the stairs and through the foyer, to a room that was flooded with light. It would be a wonderful place to spend idle days reading, but today there was only one thing that caught my attention.

Gavril Kirilenko stood in the center of the room, dressed in a suit with the dress shirt opened at the neck. His hair was slicked back off his forehead again, and I idly wondered if anyone had ever mussed him up before or what he would look like waking in the morning. I spotted a tattoo of a church spire peeking out from the V of his dress shirt, and for a moment I wondered what other tattoos dotted his body.

A flush moved through me at the thought, and I looked away, my cheeks red.

"There is no need to be embarrassed, Sveta," Kirilenko said softly. "I will know everything about you, every inch of your skin until you are marked as mine. And you will do the same with me."

My stomach clenched at the thought, the breakfast I had nearly coming back to make an abrupt appearance. It wasn't a horrible thought. Gavril was a gorgeous man and, in another time, I would have been very interested in having him in my bed.

But not like this.

As I turned my eyes back to him, I noted the racks behind him, and Vera hovering in the distance. "What is going on?" I asked in Russian.

His expression didn't change. "You are here to pick out your wedding dress."