Page 3 of Till Death Saves Me

Her carefree attitude, so evident in that photo, is exactly what makes her dangerous. She has no idea of the world she's about to enter, no concept of the threats that lurk in every shadow. Her naivety could get us both killed.

I shove the file into my briefcase, determined to put it - and her - out of my mind. Beauty is irrelevant. What matters is keeping her safe and controlled, for the sake of the Bratva and my own sanity.

2

GINNY

Istand in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by glittering chandeliers and extravagant floral arrangements. The champagne-colored silk of my designer gown hugs my curves, the plunging neckline and high slit offering tantalizing glimpses of my dark skin. My dark curls cascade down my back, adorned with delicate diamond pins.

I should feel like a princess. A gorgeous Black queen, at least tonight.

Instead, I feel like a sacrificial offering.

My eyes scan the room, taking in the mix of guests. There's Daddy's business associates, their wives dripping in jewels and faux smiles. And then there are the others. The ones with hard eyes and bulges under their jackets that aren't from overeating.

Bratva.

Daddy thinks I don't know. He's always treated me like I'm made of glass, too fragile to handle the truth. But I'm not stupid. I've seen the hushed conversations, the tense meetings behind closed doors. I've noticed the way some of these men look at me – not with lust, but with calculation.

And now, on my 21st birthday, I'm being gift-wrapped and handed over to one of them. Ivan Kozlov. My soon-to-be husband.

The thought makes my stomach churn. I've only met him a handful of times over the years, and each encounter left me cold. He looks at me like I'm a particularly annoying insect he'd love to squash under his shoe.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I might be scared, but I refuse to let it show. They all think I'm some airheaded princess, too sheltered to understand what's really going on. Let them. Maybe being underestimated will be my greatest weapon.

My eyes land on Daddy, laughing with a group of men across the room. Does he even care that he's selling his only daughter to the Russians? Or am I just another business transaction to him?

A charge permeates the air, and I know he's here before I even turn around. It's like his presence reaches out toward me, something I've felt since the first time I met him.

But I keep reminding myself that although the fire might seem inviting, it will burn if I get too close.

I spin slowly, my heart pounding so hard I swear the diamonds on my dress are vibrating. And there he is. Ivan Kozlov. My future husband. My beautiful nightmare.

He cuts through the crowd like a shark through water, all lean muscle and predatory grace. His tailored black suit fits him like a second skin, emphasizing broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Those piercing blue-gray eyes sweep the room, missing nothing.

I hate how my body reacts. My skin prickles with awareness, and there's a flutter low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear. He's devastatingly handsome, and it's so unfair. Shouldn't the devil have the decency to be ugly?

Ivan's gaze finally lands on me, and I feel pinned in place. His expression doesn't change, but something in those icy eyes shifts. Is it disgust? Annoyance? Or something... hungrier?

I lift my chin, refusing to cower. Let him see I'm not some simpering little girl. I'm Virginia Sullivan, and I won't break easily.

He stalks towards me, and I have to fight the urge to back away. Instead, I force a smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Ivan. How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

"Virginia." His voice is deep, with just a hint of a Russian accent. I shouldn't love it, but I do, even if he calls me by my full name like he knows I loathe it. "You look... acceptable."

Anger flares, hot and bright. How dare he? I open my mouth for a biting retort, but he's already moving past me, heading for my father and his associates.

I'm left standing there, cheeks burning with a mix of humiliation and unwanted arousal. This is the man I'm supposed to spend my life with? This cold, arrogant bastard who can't even be bothered with a proper greeting?

Part of me wants to scream, to throw my champagne in his face and tell him exactly where he can shove this arranged marriage. But I can't. There's too much at stake, too many things I don't fully understand.

So I take a deep breath, smooth my features into a mask of calm, and turn to mingle with the other guests. Let Ivan think he's rattled me. Let him underestimate me.

I'll show him soon enough that Ginny Sullivan is no one's "acceptable" little wife.

I watch Ivan from across the room, my fingers tightening around my champagne flute. Every time his gaze sweeps past me, I feel a jolt of electricity, equal parts anger and... something else I refuse to name. I think back to all our previous encounters, each one etched in my memory like acid on metal.

There was the time at my high school graduation party, where he looked at my valedictorian medal and muttered, "Congratulations on excelling at finger painting." Or last Christmas, when he "accidentally" knocked over my carefully wrapped gift, sneering, "Oops. Hope it wasn't breakable like your ego."

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