Page 31 of Forced Marriage Vows

I look down at her feet, and true enough, she’s wearing the white sneakers. But I have other pressing matters at hand. I grit my teeth as I force myself to look back into her eyes.

“I’m not letting you go down there like this. People will see you,” I grit out.

What I mean is that other men will look at her and I’d really like to not have to stab their eyes out.

“I should hope so,” she murmurs, trying out a few stretches. She still has on that small smile on her face, making it clear she knows what she’s doing.

I let out a soft grunt before grabbing my phone and sending a quick text to the manager of the building.

Me: Get everyone out of the gym. Make sure there’s not a soul there by the time I arrive downstairs in five minutes.

He replies in the affirmative a second later and I’m satisfied enough to put away my phone. Anastasia had been watching me and her gaze is wary when our eyes connect.

“I’m not sure I like that look on your face,” she murmurs. “What did you do?”

“Let’s go, sweetheart,” I say in lieu of answering.

She frowns. “What about Anthony?”

“When have you ever known your brother to rise before noon?” I question, leading her toward the door.

We make our way out of the apartment, riding down to the sixth floor of the building where the gym is located. It has all the state-of-the-art equipment that anyone could ever require. I’m glad when I confirm there’s not a soul present. Anastasia seems to notice and shoots me an accusing look.

“You might be forcing me to marry you, Mr. Morozova. But I’m not your property and you can’t control what I can or can’t wear,” she says in a low tone.

“Of course not,” I reply. “But I can very well control who gets to see you when you wear outfits like that. Come on, let’s warm up.”

She doesn’t say anything further as she begins small squats to get ready. I try not to stare but it’s hard not to appreciate every curve and dip of her body. The woman has the face of an angel and the body of a vixen. And I’m not sure she even knows that.

It’s what makes her so sexy. That quiet, unassuming grace. After the warmups, we start to work out. Anastasia and I seem to share an understanding that during as we do, speaking isn’t a necessity. She seems to like the quiet as much as I do.

I only speak to offer her some pointers and some exercise suggestions. She looks ready to kill me by the time she’s done with some hip thrusts while holding a bar of fifty-pound weights.

“If you make me do any more, I’m going to throw up,” she promises, collapsing on to the floor after her last thrust.

I chuckle as I lift the weights, staring down at her sprawled body.

“You did good, sweetheart,” I praise. “Just let me get in one last set and then we’re good to go.”

She doesn’t say anything as I fit the two hundred-pound weights I intend to carry on the bar. Gripping it tightly, I settle into position and begin my reps. The sound of my soft grunts fill the room as I move through the first ten. I get through another few before my head turns sideways toward Anastasia.

Her eyes are fixed on me and there’s enough heat in them that I nearly falter while lifting the weights. I clench my jaw before abruptly putting the weights back in place and standing up.

“Are you done?” she questions in surprise.

“We’re leaving,” I answer, running a hand through my hair. She arches an eyebrow in question. “I can’t focus when you look at me like that, Anastasia.”

Her expression turns chastened and she wrenches her gaze away from me. Ironic that I wanted her to look at me before and now that she is, I’m asking her not to. I wanted her eyes on me—I didn’t want her staring at me like she wanted me to rip her clothes off.

Because I’m not that much of a gentleman and I wouldn’t hesitate to do so. But I need to respect her and her wishes and I can’t be going around acting like a caveman.

“Let’s go,” I say again.

She gets to her feet, her gaze clearer and devoid of any desire I spotted earlier. “Thanks to you, my arms are on fire and I can barely feel my legs,” she complains as we walk out of the gym.

“You get used to the burn and learn to crave it eventually,” I tell her. “If you work out often enough, it’ll stop hurting as much.”

“Often?” she grits out. “I’m not doing this again.”

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