Page 56 of Forced Marriage Vows

Anastasia

Iwake up to weak morning light shining through the windows of the bedroom. My first thought is that I feel safe. Not just safe, protected. I’m enveloped in warmth. Because of him.

And it feels so wrong and yet so right at the same time.

Mikhail’s on my right side, curled behind me, his arm under my neck. His left arm is snaked over my hip, his hand gripping my thigh through the thin silk of the night gown I insisted on wearing to bed. I slowly turn to face him, carefully so he doesn’t wake up. I’m shocked when he doesn’t so much as stir. I thought he had insomnia. My brother mentioned it once. But when I finally get a good look at his face, he’s the picture of calm—at ease, peaceful.

The urge to run a hand through his hair hits me. I hold my fingers an inch away from his mouth, tracing the curve in the air. I could stare at him for hours. He’s painfully good looking, and in this moment, he looks downright innocent.

But of course my mind chooses this moment to remind me that he’s not. Mikhail’s the furthest thing from innocent, and while I want more than anything to forget, I can’t.

FIVE YEARS AGO

The bell above the door jingles as I step out of the diner, the sound fading into the quiet night. The familiar smell of greasy food and cheap coffee still lingers on my clothes, but for some reason, it’s comforting. It’s why I come here after bad days—the run-down booths, the flickering neon signs outside, and the friendly waitresses who always make sure my plate is full.

I pull my jacket tighter around me as I step onto the sidewalk, the air cooler than it was earlier. I could call for a cab, but I decide to walk. It’s only a few blocks to my off-campus accommodation and I need the fresh air to clear my head.

The streets are mostly empty, just the occasional hum of a car passing by. As I walk, my eyes drift to the dark alleyways between the buildings, the shadows stretching and shifting under the dim streetlights.

I hear it just as I’m about to pass the next alley—the sound of a low, desperate voice. Someone begging. My steps falter and I freeze, instinctively stepping back to hide behind the wall. The sound is unmistakable now, clearer. Whoever it is, they’re pleading, terrified.

“Please…. I’ll do anything…”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands grip the edges of my jacket, trying to steady myself as I peek around the corner, just enough to see what’s happening. At first, all I see is a man on his knees, his face covered in blood. He’s shaking, hands raised in front of him like they’ll shield himfrom what’s coming. There are two men standing in front of him. My stomach twists at the sight.

I’m about to turn away when I get a better look at one of the men standing over him.

Mikhail.

I suck in a breath, my entire body going cold. There’s no mistaking him—the tall, broad frame, the way he holds himself, and that terrifying calm that radiates off him. He’s holding a gun in his right hand. I don’t recognize the other man who stands behind him. But he looks Russian. If I had to guess, he’s probably asoldat.

What the hell is going on?

The man keeps begging, his voice breaking, but Mikhail doesn’t even flinch. He’s staring down at him, expression unreadable, almost bored. He looks at him like he’s gum beneath his shoe, like the man’s life doesn’t matter.

I want to do something, to help the man who seems to be desperately clinging to life. But my body feels frozen, glued to the spot as I watch. Horror fills me when Mikhail raises the gun. He pulls the trigger without a word.

The sound rings out, sharp and final, echoing down the alley. The man crumples to the ground, blood pooling around him. Mikhail doesn’t even blink. He just lowers the gun and turns around.

“Let’s go,” he says to the other man.

They both leave. I press my back against the wall, my breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. I don’t know how long I stand there, trying to process what I saw. I wonder if I should call the cops.

Mikhail’s my brother’s best friend. He’s just as involved in the Bratva as any of us. On some level, I can understand that these things happen. It’s the Russian mafia; of course they killpeople. But something about the way he killed that man rubs me the wrong way. It makes me feel sick.

He was defenseless, unarmed. And Mikhail killed him in cold blood. I force myself to move, to leave, my legs shaky. My mind races as I try to come to terms with what I’ve just witnessed. Before then, I’d never really cared about Mikhail. He was always with my brother.

My perspective of him changed from that day on. I’d seen a monster. A monster that terrified me.

I close the fridge, grabbing the tray of brownies I popped inside of it earlier. Anthony’s like a bloodhound, immediately appearing at my side and snatching one.

“This is why I love you, little sister,” he says, biting into it, his eyes fluttering closed.

I roll my eyes, placing the tray on the counter before turning around to face him. He finishes the brownie in under five minutes and is reaching for another when I slap his hand away.

“Ow, Anastasia,” he complains, rubbing the top of his fingers.

“No, grubby. I didn’t make these for you,” I state.

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