Page 29 of Forced Marriage Vows

I’d been lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, when I got the urge to get up and bake something. I was surprised when his pantry provided me with everything that I needed.

“Hmm,” he says gently, leaning against the counter as he watches me. “Need any help?”

I consider telling him to fuck off. Then I decide I simply don’t have the energy and this is really a two-person job, if I’m being honest.

“Sure, if you could just grab that pan over there and maybe smack yourself with it while you’re at it?”

He stares at me, unamused.

“No? Alright then, just grease the pan for the cake batter.”

Mikhail blinks slowly. “You woke up at eleven p.m. to bake a cake,” he says to himself in disbelief.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from stepping forward and doing as I asked. I don’t hate him any less, but it’s kind of nice, working with him. He doesn’t say a word and he listens when I correct him throughout the entire process. Soon enough, we have thecake in the oven and the counters cleaned and cleared of any evidence of our baking.

He raises his hand for a high five once we’re done. I ignore it with an eye roll, pausing when my gaze comes to rest on the spot at the side of his face. The one where a small reddish bruise is starting to form. With a soft sigh, I head for one of the cabinets I opened earlier, which has a first-aid box.

He arches an eyebrow when I pull it out, setting it on the counter. I hoist myself up before looking at him.

“I’m only helping you out with the bruise because you helped me with the baking,” I state, gesturing for him to step forward.

He does, settling in between my knees that widen on their own to accommodate him. I suddenly realize this was a very bad idea. My legs burn where they touch him, and Mikhail smiles like he can tell exactly how he’s affecting me.

I can smell him acutely. He smells of vanilla and men’s aftershave. For some reason, he’s radiating warmth in this moment—his eyes don’t appear as cold as they usually do.

“So,” Mikhail drawls as I dab some ointment over the bruise, “does this happen often? The baking?”

I shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s not every day I’m kidnapped by a man with psychopathic tendencies and grand delusions of marriage.”

He smirks, “Delusions? Whatever makes you sleep better,solnyshko,” he tells me. “How about cooking? You like to cook?”

He sounds genuinely interested in getting to know me. And I wouldn’t let him, but my guard is down and I’m more at ease now that I’ve spent some time baking.

“No. I’m not the biggest fan of cooking,” I reply.

Baking is an activity I partake in when the inspiration strikes. Cooking’s something I have to do at least twice a day in order to survive. They’re not on the same level in my mind. One I enjoy, the other one is nothing more than a chore.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I can do the cooking for us both.”

My stomach flutters at the statement, and I look up at him, taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes. And then I have to look away. He angles his head lower to catch my eyes when I do.

“You really don’t want to marry me, Mikhail,” I say gently, trying to appeal to his softer side, although I doubt he has one. “I don’t have a job. I get bored easily, and I can be a little lazy. I snore sometimes and I didn’t do particularly good in school. Basically, I’m a mess. Do you really want that?”

“Of course I do,” he murmurs without hesitation. “And trust me, sweetheart, you’re not a mess. Well, not completely,” he adds with a teasing smile.

I groan softly. That is so not what I need to be hearing in this moment. Why is he saying all the right things? If this was a man I had genuine feelings for, I’d be melting. But since this is Mikhail Morozova, I manage not to. Just barely, though.

I blame his perfectly angular face for the confusing feelings going through me right now. I really should focus on the problem at hand.

“There’s really nothing I can say to convince you not to go through with this, is there?”

“Unfortunately not,solnyshko. The wedding is in a week.”

The wedding is in a week, I repeat in my mind. I suddenly feel frozen, all the calm I felt after baking evaporating in my mind.

“You’re a terrible person,” I say to Mikhail.

He smiles, and it’s a warm smile, one that somehow manages to light me up from the inside. There really is something wrong with me.

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