Page 28 of The Russian's Forced Bride
She laughed, but it was full of pity for me.
My hands shook, and my breath caught in my throat as an unfamiliar feeling gripped my chest.
I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to tell her that things weren’t fine. I was scared out of my mind. I didn’t know who to trust anymore.
And what else?
Yeah, apparently, my father knocked up some lady a few years after he had me. He cheated on my mother—and now he had a whole other kid.
But hell, I wasn’t going to say all that shit, so I lied.
“It’s really not as bad as I thought it’d be.” I bit my bottom lip hard, drawing blood. “I’m fine, Lara.”
She sighed in relief. “I’m glad to hear that, Ari,” she said. “I miss you, and I miss us. These Bratva men can be…a lot. But I want you to know that you’ll get through it all, okay?”
My lips quivered, and just when I wanted to confess that I truly wasn’t okay, a voice called out to Lara in the background.
My weight shifted from my foot to the kitchen counter, my eyelids briefly shutting as Lara’s voice chimed in, apologizing, “I gotta go, Ari. We’ll talk later, okay?”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, and then the line went dead.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I then drew a sharp breath, trying to calm my nerves.
I repeated the words like a mantra, willing myself to be okay.
I’m fine. I’m fine.
I covered my face with my palms, then slammed my phone hard against the island, pushing back my conversation with Lara as I started grabbing things from the transparent glass refrigerator, annoyed.
Spinach, garlic, thyme. I need some thyme.
Cooking, for me, was always an escape. As an heiress—and back at Father’s place—I wasn’t allowed to do the simplest of chores.
No cooking, no cleaning. And if I weren’t born in the 21st century, I was pretty sure I’d have had maids cleaning up after me, too.
Eleanor was the one who taught me to cook in college. She wasn’t the best cook, but as I seasoned my vegetables, I couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my face as memories of our time together flooded my mind.
But unfortunately, that life was never coming back.
Sighing in acceptance, I turned around to grab an avocado from the refrigerator—only for my heart to skip a beat when I looked up and saw Rafael, dressed as handsome as ever in a grey suit layered with a fancy fur coat.
He leaned against one of the sofas in the living room, assessing me like a predator stalking its prey.
I didn’t even hear him come in—and it wasn’t because I wasn’t paying attention. Rafael was just dangerously stealthy like that.
“You were supposed to scream,” he mused, his voice soft and smooth like silk as he slowly approached me.
Unlike before, his movements were now measured—each step deliberate, like he didn’t want to scare me away.
“How do you do that?” I asked, my hands flying to my pounding chest as I gazed into his dark eyes.
Now, just a few feet away from me, I could clearly see his features up close. Stubble was growing beneath his sharp jawline, and I could see a faint, jagged scar on his cheekbone.
My hand reached out to trace it. It looked like it had been painful, but it gave him a rugged look that made him even more handsome.
He grabbed my hand before it could reach his face, but rather than being angry that I tried to touch him, he seemed a bit apologetic.
“It comes with experience,” he said, his voice gruff—and I wasn’t sure if his reply was to the question I asked or an answer to the scar on his face.
