Page 24 of Unleashed

"She's awake, sir," one of them answers.

I square my shoulders, pushing the door open, my mind filled with the warnings of my brothers. I won’t fall into the trap they think I will. This woman may be my wife, but shemust understand what happens if she crosses me. When she remembers what she did—when she recalls running from me—will she realize the damage she caused?

Will it matter if she does?

Before I step inside, I catch sight of Zoya at the end of the hallway. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, when she meets my gaze, she flinches and backs away.

She knew how I handled the others—harsh when necessary. I had to, there was too much at stake, too much at risk. I’ve never laid a hand on her, yet she still shrinks from me like a frightened kitten—and I fucking hate it.

I’ve always held this family together, with no choice but to control the chaos, especially with my brothers. The girls were easier, but all of them needed me. I had my grandfather as my guiding light and, to a lesser extent, my uncle. Vadka was my sounding board and my backup. There were hard lessons. I had to be the bad guy. I wouldn’t say I ever liked it, but if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

We’re here. Safe. Together. And I’ll do damn near anything to keep it that way.

“What is it?” I bite out, watching her wring her hands, patience hanging by a thread. I try to keep my temper back, but I want to see my wife.

"Why are you angry, Rafail?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Even the way she says my name feels like a gentle reproach.

"I’m not angry." But it’s a lie, and I never lie to Zoya. So I blow out a breath and shake my head. "Maybe I am. I just don’t like these circumstances."

She swallows and absentmindedly tugs on the hem of her top, a habit she’s had since she was a child. It makes her look younger. Vulnerable. "I don’t either. How long do you think this will last?"

What does she mean by “this”?

I look over my shoulder to see that Anissa is still in the bathroom. Still, I don’t want her to hear any of our conversation.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, trying to answer all the questions at once and answering none. I exhale in frustration.

I don’t like the way she flinches when I scowl. My anger isn’t directed at her. I would doanythingfor my brothers and sisters. Anything.

Including playing the role of husband to an absolute stranger.

"You came here to talk to me. Was that your question?"

Zoya shakes her head and stutters, "No, no, I-I made some food. I cooked a bunch of different things because I don’t know what she likes.” Her brow furrows adorably. “Do you?"

Of course I don’t. I know hardly anything about the woman on the other side of that door who shares my future.

"No." I don’t even know ifsheknows what she likes. This is frustrating. "Thank you," I grind out. Forcing my voice soft feels like pulling teeth—unnatural, like a rottweiler rolling over to show his belly. I draw in a breath. "Thank you for that. I’m not going to make her come downstairs. She’s in too much pain."

"No, no, of course not," Zoya says. "I’ll bring up a tray."

I shake my head. "No, Zoya," I reply firmly. "Prepare it, and I’ll bring it up."

"All right," she says softly. "Thank you."

She does a clumsy little head nod before she flees, and it makes me feel like a dick. She’s my sister, not my servant.Jesus. I turn back and face the room. Andshe’smy prisoner, not my wife.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Right now, all of Zalivka is talking about my bride. Everyone knows that I’m married. And everyone knows there was an accident, but nobody knows what happened. I aim to keep it that way.

Certain the guards are in place, I decide to go downstairs now and get the food myself. If Zoya decides to disobey me and carry the damn thing, I’ll have to scold her, and I fucking hate doing that. So I go downstairs and try the food as she plates it.

"Delicious." I don’t even taste it, but I’m trying. Goddamn, I’m trying.

"Just a few simple things," she says quietly. "I really hope she likes them. And you, too, of course," she stammers, shaking her head. "But you like everything I make, Rafail." She gives me a shy smile. On impulse, I reach for her and give her a quick hug. No matter how much I scold her to eat, she only pecks at her food like a little bird, small and fragile.

"I do love everything you make. Thank you for this. She’s going to be very glad to have you as a sister, Zoya."

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