Page 15 of Forced Marriage Vows

“You don’t? Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure someone will snatch you up soon. You really are so beautiful, Anastasia,” she says on a soft sigh. “If only my daughter was half as pretty as you. I’ve been trying to secure her a husband but my efforts haven’t been working out.”

Extremely weird thing to say but definitely not the worst thing I’ve heard from her.

“I’m sure she’ll find a husband soon. And if she doesn’t, being single and unmarried is all the rage these days. It’s certainly better than being in an unhappy relationship,” I say.

The older woman narrows her brown eyes, switching to Russian. “Don’t make jokes like that, Anastasia,” she warns.

“I won’t if you let me leave,” I tell her, my patience already spent.

She huffs out a breath but doesn’t say anything further as I make my way to the exit, glad to be out of the house. Sometimes I can’t help but mourn what it used to be. There was a time we were happy in the mansion. It was just us and a few help milling about.

Anthony was here, my papa was here, and my mother as well. But that’s all in the past. All that’s left now are the painful memories. Memories that I can’t help but hold on to.

“Yo,” someone calls. “Are we leaving or not?”

I whirl around from the door into the house to find Coda standing beside the driver’s seat of my car. He has a wide smile on his face and I can’t help but arch an eyebrow as I take him in. He’s changed. I haven’t seen him in about a year, not since I moved out of the house.

In that time, he’s grown out his black hair and is even sporting some hair on his chin. It suits him, makes him appear even more rugged although I’m not sure he needs it. He’s all muscle—the only thing that makes him appear less threatening is the constant mischievous look in his dark eyes.

I step down the steps, my smile rising unbidden as I step into his waiting arms.

“Hey, partner,” he murmurs into my hair.

He’s only a couple of inches taller than me. I don’t need to tilt my head all the way back to look him in the eye. Unlike someone else.

The image of Mikhail Morozova rises in my mind. I’ve been thinking about him far too often since our encounter behind the club. I wish I could stop, but I keep wondering why he did what he did.

I never thought he noticed me, but that shows he notices me way more than I think I’m comfortable with.

“Terrorize anyone lately?” Coda asks in that Southern drawl of his that “makes the ladies melt,” in his own words.

He’s Russian but was adopted into a family in Tennessee when he was thirteen. The family moved here to Chicago, and he somehow found his way into the Bratva. He’s never told me how.

“You bet,” I reply with a smile. “But it’s nice to see you. I like the beard. And the hair.”

He runs a hand through his hair with a smile. “I knew you would, baby. But you’re not getting in my pants.”

I laugh. “Get over yourself, Coda. Seriously.”

“Not happening. Anyway, now that we’re stuck together, we’re going to have lots of fun. There’s this bar we’ve got to check out. They have all-you-can-drink nights on Thursdays.”

“How is that fun?” I say on a frown.

“Oh, right. Forgot how weak you are when it comes to drinking.”

I punch his arm. “Take that back!”

“It’s true, though,” Coda says, laughing. “Remember that time you puked on the sidewalk and proceeded to sit down beside your puke, crying about it.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “That wasn’t me.”

“Sure it was. It’s one of my priceless memories.”

“I really hate you,” I tell him with a glare.

He throws an arm around me. “No, you love me. And we’re going to have the best time over the next few days.”

“Can’t wait,” I say dryly.

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