Page 12 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“Hey, man,” I said, “sorry about the whole tricking you and your girlfriend thing.”

His eyes were hard and distant but darted to mine at the word girlfriend.

“Mary-Anne is not my girlfriend,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Aren’t you kind of young to be a butler?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I thought butlers had to be old as hell. Then again, what do I know? I’ve never even seen a butler in real life. I kind of thought they were a myth. Like Bermuda.”

“First of all,” the butler had said, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Bermuda is a real place, and second, I’m not a butler—I’m a housecarl.”

“A what?”

“I take care of the house, manage small tasks, fix stuff, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds like a butler to me.”

The man pressed his lips together, pointing his exasperated look elsewhere.

“Do you mind flipping the page for me?” I’d asked, nodding my head down at the book. The butler stood and crossed the room, flipping the page as carefully as possible without touching me.

“Did Bor-y Wor-y tell you not to touch me?” I asked, looking up at him through my eyelashes. When he didn’t answer, I cleared my throat. “I wonder what happens to employees who break the code of conduct by having intimate relations with—”

“Yes!” the butler said quickly. “We were all warned not to lay a hand on you.”

“Interesting,” I said, slipping my hand free of the tie and turning the page before putting my hand back into the loosened loop. The butler had looked at me with wide eyes, which made me laugh.

“I don’t know why he hasn’t just used handcuffs at this point,” I said, shrugging, “though I do know how to get free of those, too. When I was a little girl, I used to dream about getting kidnapped the way other little girls dreamed about princes and stuff. I thought it would give me a real chance to show off my skills. But this is a whole other thing together—getting kidnapped by a member of the Russian mob? The little girl inside me is freaking out.”

“It’s not—how do you know about the Russian—” the butler started.

“Hey, man, you don’t have to worry about me,” I said, “I understand what it’s like to be the help. But you have to understand my position, too. I may be enjoying this a bit, but I also need to make sure I don’t let my guard down. So, here’s what’s going to happen—you’re going to tell me everything you know about Boris and his family, and I won’t breathe a word about you and Mary-Anne. Sound good?”

He let out a sigh, his entire body deflating.

“Oh, and what’s your name?” I’d asked, flipping the page again. “Seems unfair that you know mine, and I don’t know yours.”

“Ivan.”

“Ivan?” I’d laughed. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it? You don’t look like an Ivan.”

He’d just sighed again, then reluctantly answered most of my questions. That meant that by the time Boris came back to the room last night, showering and hunkering his big body down on the couch, I knew a lot more about him than he probably thought.

Now, I know that while Boris isn’t the leader of the Bratva—which is what Ivan called the Russian mafia—he is the leader of a local branch, which gives him a lot more power than the rest of the suckers here. He has three brothers—Roman, Viktor, and Anton—and a sister named Anya. According to Ivan, Viktor is the one I need to watch out for. First, because he’s the most likely to go off-script and kill someone, and second because he’s apparently royally pissed about the knife-to-the-leg thing.

I sit up in the bed and look around the room. Boris is already gone, the room steaming from the shower, but no sight of the big man.

Heading to the connected bathroom, I shudder when I realize the only thing in the shower is a three-in-one men’s soap. Groaning internally, I use it to clean my body, feeling clean but ridiculous as I towel off. My hair, which is used to particular shampoo and conditioner, rebels against the soap, somehow being both dry and greasy at the same time.

When I hear the door to the bedroom open, I turn, running into the room, stopping short when I see its Boris, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he takes me in, his eyes wandering up and down my body.

My brain tells me to drop the towel. I tell my brain that’s an insane idea and tighten my hold around the top of the towel. Boris’s eyes narrow in on my hand there, gripping the only thing that’s keeping me from being naked in front of him, and I take a stuttering breath.

I need to get control of this situation again.

“Hey, Bor-y,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level as his eyes track me through the room. I come to sit in my favorite armchair, keeping one hand on the towel as I run my other hand through my hair. “If you’re going to keep me here, I need some stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah—first of all, the only thing I have to wear is that housekeeper’s uniform because you never returned my clothes.”

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