Page 4 of Poisoned Roses

Boris Fedorov.

The man who has orchestrated this marriage. The person who rules Russia with an iron fist out of the spotlight. If you refuse him it’s the last thing you ever do, which is why I am goingalong with this. However, the only reason why I’m going along with this is revenge.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

In his mind, I am a loyal citizen. The ideal substitute for my father, who chose to pursue the life he always desired rather than carry on living a lie.

He had done his duty, paid his price, over and over again, and took something for himself. It was the last thing he did because Boris Fedorov never lets you leave the club he created. He is the devil and there is no exit from hell.

That’s why I’m walking headfirst into it, holding the hand of the woman beside me as the sacrifice. It’s why I’m meeting him in his fortress, so I can destroy him from within.

Boris Fedorov may have underestimated my father, and he has definitely underestimated me because I discovered his secret and will use it to finish what four men started many years ago.

“Are you going to tell me what’s happening right now?”

I almost forgot the woman was here until her soft voice permeates my thoughts and it holds none of the fear it should.

I consider my response carefully.

Am I going to tell her? Is she strong enough to cope with the truth?

I conclude that she is not.

It would be unwise to reveal my hand so early on and I reply gruffly, “You were selected as my wife for reasons unknown. Boris Fedorov, in his wisdom, has decided that we are the perfect couple to represent our country on the world stage, something you have done exceptionally well up until now.”

“What if I don’t agree?”

“You will agree, Tatiana. We both know it isn’t a request.”

She gasps and her voice is stronger than I thought it would be as she snarls, “I am not a puppet of the State, Mr. Romanov, even if you are. Find somebody else.”

I turn and stare at her in the dimly lit shadows of the car, my steely gaze penetrating through the darkness and I am met with two defiant sparkling pools of mystery. Her haughty features twisted into a proud expression of autocracy, her pale skin heated from anger and her soft pink lips set in a hard angry line.

I take a moment to admire such beauty. I don’t usually consider a woman beautiful, especially one as polished as this woman is. Then again, I’m used to beautiful women hanging on my arm, their manicured talons wrapped around it, hoping to cling on for longer than most. Hoping to mean something to me. Hoping to trap me.

I am the prize. The most eligible bachelor in Russia because Titus Romanov appears to have everything going for him.

I do not.

I am the reluctant head of a family who was dealt a cruel hand in life. With great riches comes great sacrifice and this is mine. She is my sacrifice, but like the good citizen I am, I don’t question the command when it’s issued. Boris Fedorov, for reasons known only to him, has decided that I am the man to represent the State on the world stage and who better than to accompany me than the woman who considers it home already.

She is waiting for my response and I consider it carefully. Anger her and she will only exacerbate the problem. Humor her at my peril. She deserves to be treated with respect because like me, she has earned it, but this isn’t my story to tell and I have no answers, anyway.

“There is nobody else. Deal with it.” I snap as I turn away, and her gentle hiss almost makes me smile.

I’m surprised to discover I like her unwillingness. Perhaps I am more fucked up than I realized. If she was excited, happy, ecstatic even, I would hate her more. Not that I hate her. I feel nothing for her at all. She is a means to an end and an accessoryon my arm as I deal with the problem that goes by the name of Boris Fedorov.

The car sweepsthrough the gates of the Kremlin, the outriders accompanying us making certain we get there safely – making certain we arrive at all. They are here to deliver us to evil. I accept that and will deal with it by playing by their rules. Tonight, I may even get to learn what those rules are.

The car rolls to a stop at the steps leading to damnation and as the door opens, I bite back my irritated growl and reach for Miss Pavlov’s hand.

“Allow me.”

She snatches it away and says through gritted teeth, “I can get out of the fucking car on my own, Mr. Romanov. Keep your hands to yourself.”

I say nothing and exit the car, leaving her to follow me out. I have no time for spoiled prima donnas and she will get no reaction from me.

As we walk side by side into the building, I don’t appreciate the classic lines of a fortress. The beautiful images painted on the stone walls depict the past—our religious past, which makes a mockery of the men who have always ruled over us.

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