Page 18 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
I swing it wide open and see him completely dressed, at 5 AM. He’s got on these brown trousers and a fitted white t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath. And that blazer, it screams Polo brunch. It’s criminally unfair that someone this awful can look this good at five in the morning.
My jaw hangs open at the sight. “Don’t you sleep or something?”
“I do. You’ve just had more of it than me,” he says, holding out a cup of coffee.
“For me?” I ask, incredulously. “Thanks, but it’s a little early for coffee.”
“Take the coffee, Arina,” he glowers.
I take it. “What’s going on?”
“Drink up and get dressed,” he tells me impatiently, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. His gaze lingers on my hair, my morning face, and skims down my body as Irealize how ultra-short my shorts are. I tug down the hem of my robe, and he immediately stands, as though he wasn’t aware he’d been looking, and I see his face turn red.
“Get dressed?” I ask, completely confused.
“I have a business trip to take and you’re coming with me!” he declares.
“What? Why?” I ask, the anger evident in my voice. This makes no sense. Why the hell would I accompany him for a business trip?
“I can’t leave you here,” he says simply.
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You mean, youwon’t. God forbid you lose your precious hostage,” I hiss and see him flinch at the spite in my voice.Good.
“I know it’s hard,” he says with such unexpected kindness that I find myself stunned, compelled into taking a softer voice.
“No, you don’t,” I say, softly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be told what to do and where to go like you’re some puppet.”
A flash of something like regret crosses his eyes. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says. “But right now, I need you to get dressed and eat some breakfast. The maid is bringing it up right now, and she’s also got your suitcase all packed. Please, Arina, just think of it as a vacation," he says. “The flight leaves in two hours.”
I don’t answer. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m… starving.
I sip the coffee, muttering, “I’m not happy about this.”
“I know,” he says.
“And I’m not going because you said so. I’m going because I want fresh air.”
His mouth twitches into a half smile as he looks at his phone and begins to walk away. “Fair enough.”
“Where are we going?” I shout at his retreating form.
He doesn’t answer, already on his phone.
I grumble and shut the door. My head hurts from the lack of sleep, but I manage to force myself into the shower.
***
I manage to get myself down to the car to see his guards standing by, the luggage already in the car, with my clothes, whatever they look like. Ilariy stands by the car with his arms crossed, looking impatient as he waits for me.
“Finally,” he declares with a huff when I reach his side. He opens the door and ushers me into the back of the Hummer.
“Where are we going?” I ask as soon as he gets in beside me from the other side. The driver begins to drive, and a convoy of security follows. Is the casino and hotel business really so dangerous that it needs so much security? Or maybe he’s just a walking target with all that money.
“Cancun,” he declares, like it’s the neighboring street.
“Cancun, Mexico?” I ask, shocked at the thought.
“Most wives would be happy to accompany their husbands to Cancun,” he says drily.
