Page 9 of The Russian's Forced Bride
I bit my lip while Oskar simply kept staring at me, his cane tapping impatiently as he waited for my answer.
I had no choice. This wasn’t about me anymore. Jacob’s safety was on the line, and I knew I’d do anything to protect him, even if it meant delving deeper into another cage and ripping myself off all my freedom.
I gulped as I looked into Oskar’s eyes and nodded.
“Alright, Oskar,” I said, defeated. “I’ll marry your nephew.”
I could only hope that Rafael wouldn’t want to trade his lifestyle for me.
Chapter 3 – Rafael
The image of that woman was burned into the depths of my skull.
Arlette Whitmore.
What began as a persistent and irritating curiosity toward her festered into something more uncomfortable and pleasant. And her name lingered in my mind like an earworm.
At first, I dismissed my feelings for her as lust—a craving to possess her—but then I realized it was something I couldn’t fully explain as time went on. It had been two weeks since our encounter at the hospital, yet I could still smell her. I could still hear the echoes of her voice everywhere.
And it was driving me crazy and filling my heart with deep hatred for her whole being.
I wasn’t wired to think too much about things, especially people, but now she had toppled the balance of everything in a matter of seconds.
And even now, seated on an obsidian-colored suede couch in my penthouse, I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of any other thing.
The penthouse, which sometimes housed other women temporarily, was now devoid of any other person aside from my assistant, Cassandra, who stood at the kitchen island just across from me, scheduling my meetings for next week.
Cassandra was the only woman I had kept by my side for this long. She was a Slavic beauty whom I had recruited from being a server at a high-end bar. Back then, I had figured she had too much potential to waste out at a bar where she was constantly being groped by men.
And I was right. As my assistant, Cassandra Miller was more than just a pretty face. She carried herself with an air ofelegance, with brains that could figure out a person in a matter of seconds.
She didn’t need to ask before she knew what I wanted, and she must’ve noticed something was wrong with my behavior, but chose not to comment on it.
She was also pretty efficient, caring about the appearance of my penthouse more than I did. The penthouse was baroquely styled, shrouded with gray-accented walls and a chandelier hanging atop a mural of clouds on the ceiling.
Gothic-framed artworks also hung on the walls, and although it was daytime, the room still felt brooding—an excellent atmosphere Cassandra had created.
I silently wondered if Arlette would be attracted to the haunting gloom of the penthouse. Ladies who came by for a night of pleasure found it kinky, but I was certain thatwitchwould hate it.
I scoffed at myself as the tapping of Cassandra’s heels against the marbled floors snapped me back to reality. Here I was, thinking of a woman I’d never meet again, when Jaxon Whitmore’s murderer had still not been found.
I hadn’t been attacked as I expected, but somehow, I knew it was only a matter of time.
The glass doors of the penthouse suddenly beeped and slid open, alerting Cassandra and me to another presence, though I didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Maxim Voronov, my right-hand man.
Maxim Voronov wasn’t just my right hand. He knew exactly who I was underneath my outward façade. He was the only one who truly knew who I was.
Even more than Cassandra Miller.
He looked sharp as always, a darkness looming over him like a shadow. He donned a navy-blue suit over his lean, athletic build that ladies swooned over. His thick, long midnight hairwas tied into a bun behind his head. The jagged scar beneath his right eye lifted as a small smirk appeared on his lips. A scar that had been a souvenir from a deal gone wrong back in Prague, and although I found it somewhat unsightly to look at, Maxim wore it as a badge of honor, saying it mirrored the one I had just below my cheekbone.
When Maxim reached me, he slid an envelope-style file onto the minimalist wooden coffee table, which held a rosé-filled wine glass in front of me. He then stood straight like a soldier, hands clasped behind his back, and began to fill me in on its contents while I picked it up and removed each piece of paper.
I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke, his voice low and gravelly, with his thick Russian accent seeping through.
“It’s the progress of the money laundering from the Eastern European casinos,” he said, and then pointed at the envelope. “Everything you need to know is in there.”
