Page 27 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I give Roman and Viktor a nod as they leave, then hold open the rear door of my car.

“Get in, Emery.”

Even angry and confused, she looks radiant. Her silk dress shimmers in the winter sun, catching the lights that line the avenue, and I can’t resist staring at her luscious curves as she folds her arms and glares at me with those captivating green eyes.

I fix her with a steely expression of my own, and she wilts under my gaze. “Do as I tell you and get in the car,” I say. “We’re not going to the reception.”

She lifts her eyes to mine, eyes wide. “But we’re expected to?—”

“Your father has some explaining to do, so leave him to it,” I say. “Nowget in.”

Her eyes flicker, but she composes herself. Without saying anything else, she climbs into the car.

I get in beside her, tap the glass partition, and the sedan silently pulls away to join the upper midtown traffic.

Emery looks out of the window, breathing heavily. I catch the faintest tremble in her shoulders, which stirs a protective urge.

Her fear is simultaneously thrilling and distressing to me, which says nothing good about my personality, but this is new territory for me, too.

I’ve never wanted anyone as much. Emery’s sweetness and innocence are unknown in my world, and I’m intrigued about what will happen when my darkness stains her pure nature.

I could make her buckle without any effort at all; many bratva men do just that with their women, but it’s not my idea of fun.

Force would be so easy, but it’s the challenge of drawing her in, of turning that defiance into desire, that really drives me.

I want my wife to scream my name in ecstasy, not in fear.

She crosses her legs, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of her full thighs shifting beneath the satin.

I should say something, but I’m stunned into silence; after a week of following her from a distance, having her captive is a triumph, and I’m riding high on that exquisite sense of conquest.

“Where are we going?” Emery asks suddenly, giving me her pretty green eyes. “Will you at least tell me that much?”

“We’re going to my place, Emery,” I say. “You may as well get used to my lifestyle because now it’s yours.”

My Upper East Side penthouse suite is imposing, but I rarely have guests around, so it’s strange to see Emery in my home, moving amongst the minimalist decor like an exotic bird in a sparse, featureless cage.

I watch her pace, her shoulders tight, her movements skittish as she stalks across the room.

The Manhattan skyline stretches out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a view most people would kill for, but she’s too stressed out to notice much of anything except the man who barged into her life and stole her away.

“Explain,” she says, whirling to face me. Her eyes are blazing, her cheeks flushed with anger. “This must be some kind of stupid joke. Dante’s going to kill me!”

I lean against the edge of the leather sofa, folding my arms. I know I should tread carefully, maybe ease her into this, but I can’t help the flicker of satisfaction at the sight of her so unguarded, so fierce.

“He wouldn’t risk whispering your name within a thousand miles of my ears,moya zhena,” I say. “Would you rather have married him?”

The question gives her pause. She knows that saying yes would be an incredible insult to me, not to mention an admission of defeat, but saying no presents different problems.

“You didn’t give me a choice,” she says, a sob escaping her. “You’re no better than he is.”

That stings more than I’d like to admit, but I keep my expression steady. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of hiding what I feel and maintaining control.

“You’re wrong,” I say quietly, keeping my voice level. “I’m nothing like Dante.”

She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge me. “Then why do I feel like a pawn, Leon? Just one more asset for you to acquire, one more piece in whatever game you’re playing?”

“I didn’t take you from him to control you, Emery. I did it to protect you.”

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