Page 79 of Forced Marriage Vows

“No,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re not going in there alone.”

I turn to him, my eyes pleading. “Mikhail, please. I’m the only person they won’t take a shot at immediately. And you promised. I need to at least talk to him.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing. His looks at me for a long moment. I can see the conflict in him. He wants more than anything to keep me out of danger, but I have to do this—for his sake and mine.

“Mikhail,” I whisper, taking a step closer. “Please.”

His eyes flash, his grip tightening on my arm, “If you’re not out in twenty minutes,” he says, his voice like ice, “I’m coming in. And I don’t care how many doors or windows I have to break to get to you.”

My heart leaps. “Thank you.”

His hand comes up to cup my face, and before I can react, he presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips warm.

“Be careful,solnyshko. Your father is not the man you think he is,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

I turn around and walk toward the house, my legs heavy with fear and uncertainty. There’s a keypad next to the door and I type in the code, the numbers familiar beneath my fingers. It’s my birthday, making me feel so much worse.

The door clicks open and I step inside, the silence swallowing me whole. The house is eerily quiet, the only sound my own breathing as I walk through the hallway. The living room is just ahead and I force myself to keep moving even as my heartscreams at me to turn back. When I step into the room, the sight that greets me freezes me in place.

My father is there, standing in the center of the room, a gun in his hand. His face is twisted in fury, his eyes cold and dark as they lock onto mine. On the couch in front of him is Jalen—a small, unconscious little boy. He looks so tiny, vulnerable, surrounded by the guards my father has stationed around him.

One of them is Coda. My gaze meets his for a moment before I look forward.

“Daughter,” my father spits, his voice filled with venom. “You’ve brought wolves to my front door. I trusted you!”

My heart cracks. I can feel the tears stinging my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. Not now, not with everything on the line.

“Papa,” I whisper as I step forward, my voice breaking. “Why are you doing this? He’s a little boy.”

His hand tightens on the gun in his hand, “You betrayed me, Anastasia,” he snarls. “I didn’t want to believe that you would choose him over me, but you did. My own daughter stabbed me in the back.”

I shake my head, my voice trembling. “I didn’t choose this, Papa. You did. You forced my hand when you kidnapped an innocent child.”

“He’shischild,” my father growls, pointing the gun at Jalen’s sleeping figure. My stomach twists with worry. “Don’t underestimate what I’ll do to take down my enemies, Anastasia. I’ll kill this boy if I have to.”

“No,” I say, my voice louder now. Desperation clawing at me.

He stares at me, his eyes searching mine for something, some kind of understanding. Maybe he’s searching for the little girl he once knew. The one who was obsessed with him and would have done anything he asked. The one desperate for his attention. But that little girl is gone.

And I can see it now. Something I’ve been too afraid to admit to myself. The father I knew is gone, as well. Maybe he never even existed. I suck in a sharp breath as I prepare to ask something that I know is going to break my heart, but I need to ask anyway.

“I’ve been having this recurring dream for as long as I can remember,” I start, and his eyes narrow suspiciously. “In the dream, I’m walking toward the door of your office in the mansion.”

I’d been deluding myself into believing that the room was an unfamiliar one, but that’s not true. I remember it being in the home I grew up in. The rest of the details are obscure, though.

“I can’t remember how old I am or what I’m doing. All I remember is seeing a man choking a woman to death on a table. But it terrifies me. That dream has haunted me for so long, Papa. I want you to tell me what you know about it.”

His expression cracks for a moment and I catch a glimpse of the father I once knew. But then it’s gone in a flash.

“You were five,” he starts, his jaw clenched. “I made a mistake. I should have closed the door.”

Three sentences. Thirteen words. That’s all it takes to shatter everything I once knew and believed in. My hands shake as I curl them into fists.

“Who’s the woman you killed?” I ask him.

“I didn’t kill her,” he corrects. “Your mother and I had gotten into a fight. She passed out during our scrape. When I looked up, you were standing in the doorway, watching. I think you were in shock. You wouldn’t talk for days, and when you finally did, it was like you’d blocked out the memory of what happens.”

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