Page 27 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
With a deep breath, I face the window again, well aware of how much faster my heart starts beating.
Reminding myself to breathe, I try to focus on the passing buildings. I try to keep myself level and not let all of it get to my head.
But it already feels too late.
Seeing his family is like a confirmation, as if that’s what makes the marriage real. Meeting them makes my chances of waking up from this nightmare even slimmer than they had been in the first place.
Now, I won’t be able to wake up in my apartment or find myself returning from some state of psychosis in the elementary school.
No…Roman said he already erased my life. Hehandled it.
Eventually, the SUV slows and pulls into a private entrance hidden mostly out of sight. The valet waits wearing all black, and it doesn’t take much to realize it’s clearly one of his.
As the door is opened, Roman gets out first, but I hesitate.
No part of me wants to cooperate. I don’t want to play along with the game set up by him, for him. I sure as hell don’t want to be his unwilling wife.
But for whatever reason, seeing the few men around us, knowing we’re in public, stops me from sulking as I feel inclined to.
Instead, I follow him out.
Muted music reaches me first as we approach, with Roman staying behind me with a hand hovering over my lower back.
At a glance, it might look protective or even tender. But I know better than that…it’s him bracing for my attempt to bolt.
As tempting as that sounds, I also know I wouldn’t make it two feet before being tackled by one of his men, if not Roman himself.
Once the back door opens, the bass carries out of the club, and we approach the ever-growing music with every step.
The place is sleek and strangely well-concealed. If you don’t know, then you won’t know. It all seems very intentional.
Everything inside feels just like the interior of his house: expensive, polished, and laced with dark, rich colors. Itsomehow screams organized crime, and immediately, I don’t fit in.
I feel like someone wearing a costume, trying their hardest to blend in, only to do the opposite.
Roman leads me down a hallway until we reach a private section fit with plush couches, a bar off to the side, and a more intimate atmosphere. The glass divider walls provide a look into the rest of the club while still maintaining some separation.
At once, I see them there too. His family.
Their heads turn in our direction the moment we walk in, and I feel like even more of a poser if that were possible.
The resemblance is uncanny—all with sharp jaws, high cheekbones, and some blue eyes and dark hair variation.
A man leaning against the bar grins to himself. “If it isn’t the bride and groom.”
At once, a mutual sense of amusement seems to break their reserved expressions, and they look us both over.
Roman nods, giving a quiet but insistent nudge against my back to usher me on.
“Everyone, this is Victoria,” he says, almost showing me off like something he won at a county fair.
Something in me feels the urge to say hi, or some other lame-sounding greeting, but my throat is dry and tighter than it ever has been.
One of the men sitting on a couch stands with a glass of neat vodka in his hand, and he extends the other with a warmer grin.
“I’m Sergey…the brother everyone likes.”
He catches me off guard, but I shake his hand anyway.
