Page 14 of Beautiful Scar

But I can’t judge. She’s got her issues, and I’ve got mine. Better we’re two people with separate problems.

“I’m decent,” I call out once I’m fully clothed. “You don’t have to hide. You didn’t see the good stuff.”

“I’m not hiding.” She strides out of the back room and gives me a haughty glare. “And I think you did that on purpose.”

“How could I have possibly timed that so perfectly?”

“You were standing thereshowingoff.”

My eyebrows raise. It takes a lot of effort not to laugh at that. “Showing off… as in, you liked what you saw?”

“Don’t misread what I said.” Her jaw works, and frustration’s written all over her body. I think she’s about to lay into me—when she suddenly deflates.

It happens fast.

One second, she’s a spitfire about to tear into my goddamn throat.

And the next? A meek little doll.

Prim and proper, but submissive.

Why the hell is she doing that?

Hiding the little beast she’s got chained inside?

Forget it. This night’s a mess. Everything’s gone spectacularly wrong, and now I figure is as good a time as any to make it worse.

“Listen, we have to talk about this marriage.” I gesture for her to come sit next to me on the bed.

Instead, she opts for the nearby table. Smart girl, putting space between us. That, or it’s notproperto sit next to me.

Her own husband.

Possessive desire flickers through my chest. I want her here, right here, her leg pressed to mine, close enough to grab and bury with kisses.

Got to take it slow, though. Her pace, not mine.

“What’s there to say?” she asks. “Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice in the matter.”

“Actually, there’s something else you don’t know. I’m guessing your asshole father didn’t mention the stipulation?”

She pales slightly. “What… stipulation?”

I rub the bridge of my nose. I knew it already, but god, what a terrible situation. “This marriage is political. We’re the bridge bringing together your organization and mine. But if you didn’t know already, our two groups have been fighting and killing each other on and off for a very long time.”

“I’m aware of the bad blood. I’m a hermit, not an idiot.”

“Didn’t say you were.” I clear my throat. Why am I hesitating so much? I know it’s going to scare the hell out of her, but why do I even care?

I came into this thinking I’d hitch myself to some random Russian girl, fuck her a few times, knock her up, and send her away. That’s still the plan—but things changed when Dasha collapsed walking down the aisle.

The second her knees buckled, I ran to her.

Little pretty Dasha. So damn small and pretty. I couldn’t help but want to protect her and help her in that moment, and that’s not like meat all.

I’m the enforcer. I’m the killer. I’m feared throughout my family and beyond.

Why would I care about some random Russian? Even if she’s my wife, that’s just some paperwork, and everyone knows it.

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