Page 28 of Forced Marriage Vows

“Don’t fucking test me right now, Mikhail. Let my sister go.”

“As I keep trying to tell you, that’s not going to happen. Now, enough with the dramatics. Put the gun away and we can discuss this like grown people.”

His tone only serves to make Anthony even angrier. When I notice his finger easing toward the trigger once again, I move forward, standing in front of the gun. Slowly, I bring my hand up to his.

“He’s right, Ant,” I say softly. “You don’t need to do this.”

Eventually, I’m able to get him to lower the gun. His eyes meet mine and he huffs out a short breath before placing it behind his shirt. Once the gun is out of sight, I sigh with relief.

“That was not cool, big brother,” I tell him. “You can’t do that again.”

“No promises.”

Together, we both turn to Mikhail. He arches an eyebrow.

“What?”

“We need to come to a compromise,” I state. “You have two Vasilievs right here. Surely there’s something we can do to get you the legitimacy you so desperately need.”

He tilts his head to the side, like he’s considering my statement. Then he shrugs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not sure when I gave you the impression that this was a negotiation. But it’s not. You’re marrying me, end of story.”

“You motherfucker,” Anthony bellows.

He rushes past me and, before I can blink, flings his fist toward Mikhail’s face. The punch doesn’t land, however. Mikhail somehow manages to stop his fist before it can connect with his face.

“Nice try.” He smirks.

But Anthony must have been expecting that because he swings his other fist, and this one manages to find its mark. Mikhail stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

“That wasn’t very nice, Ant,” he murmurs.

Rage flickers in his expression but it disappears just as fast. I get in between the two men before any other punches can be thrown, placing a hand on my brother’s chest.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” I ask him, confused.

My brother has never been the man throwing the punches. The one making everyone laugh, sure. But violence has never been in his nature.

Mikhail’s the one who replies. “Because he knows there’s nothing he can do to change my mind.”

And when I look into my brother’s eyes, I see the truth there bright as day. I swallow softly as the inevitably of my situation starts to dawn on me.

Later that night, I’m in the kitchen stirring some sugar and eggs in a bowl. Mikhail steps inside, pausing when he notices me in the dim light.

“What are you doing?”

“Baking,” I reply simply, dropping the mixture to measure some flour. “I borrowed your SpongeBob apron,” I inform him as an afterthought, gesturing at the material tied around my waist.

“I can see that,” he says slowly, his eyes trailing over my face, which I’m sure has some flour on it by now. “Exactly why are you baking at almost midnight?”

Anthony went to bed an hour ago after we had a long conversation. He spent most of it blaming himself for everything that was going wrong. In his mind, none of this would have happened if he had just stayed and taken over from our father. I assured him that wasn’t true.

He’s going to be staying here with us, partly because he flew here from L.A. without making any arrangements for a place to stay. And also because, in his words, his best friend has gone “batshit crazy” and he doesn’t trust me alone with him.

By the time he went to bed, he was sounding more like himself, which I was glad for. Whatever happens, I never want to see my brother like that again.

“I’m a stress baker. I bake when I’m stressed out,” I explain to Mikhail on a huff.

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