Page 21 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Marriage. You become my wife, and your father looks like exactly what he is. A man who abandons his daughter to the Bratva. His reputation, his political connections, everything he’s built…it all crumbles.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then laughed. It was sharp and bitter, completely without humor.
“You’re insane. Actually, certifiably fucking insane.”
“I’m practical.”
“You’re delusional if you think I am going to marry you. What’s next? You want me to have your babies, too? Play house in your murder mansion?”
Heat flashed through me at the image her words painted. Eleanor, round with my child, wearing my ring, belonging to me in every way that mattered.
“The marriage doesn’t have to be real,” I said, though the words tasted like lies. “Just legal. Just long enough to destroy your father.”
“And then what? You kill me? Dump me somewhere and pretend it never happened?”
“Then you’re free to go.”
She studied my face, searching for tells, for signs of deception. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I care what you choose.”
“This isn’t a choice. This is coercion.”
I leaned in, close enough that she could feel my breath on her skin. “Everything is a choice, Eleanor. You can marry me, or I can kill your father and let you live with the knowledge that your stubbornness put him in the ground.”
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating with something that wasn’t quite fear. “You’re threatening to murder my father if I don’t marry you.”
“I’m giving you options.”
“Those aren’t options. That’s extortion.”
“Call it whatever helps you sleep at night.”
She was breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling in a way that pulled my gaze even when I told myself not to look. The hoodie was too big for her, but somehow that made it worse. I couldn’t stop picturing what was underneath it.
“I need time to think.”
“You have until tomorrow morning.”
“That isn’t enough time.”
“It’s all the time you get.”
She shoved me, hard enough that it rocked me back a fraction, not enough to move me far. Then, she punched my chest. It didn’t hurt, but it sent a jolt straight through me. When she went for another swing, I caught her wrists. Not to hurt her, but to hold her still.
Something shifted in that moment. The tension between us changed shape, sharp edges melting into something hotter, more dangerous. I felt her pulse hammering against my fingers, and I knew she could feel mine. Her eyes locked on mine, daring me. Testing me.
The dam broke. Our mouths met in a violent, breathless collision. There was nothing soft about it. Her lips were warm, insistent, and she matched me beat for beat, pulling at my shirt until her knuckles pressed against my chest. My grip on herwrists loosened just enough for her to slide her hands up to my shoulders, dragging me closer.
The kiss deepened, turning into something slow for a heartbeat before the heat surged again. My lips left hers, moving to her neck, feeling the rush of her pulse under my mouth, tasting the heat of her skin. She let out a sound—half gasp, half growl—that made my control slip another inch. My hands found her waist, fingers digging in as I began to lift her toward the wall.
Her palm pressed flat to my chest, firm but not frantic. I stopped instantly, breathing hard, searching her face for the reason.
“I’m a virgin,” she said, her cheeks flushed but her voice steady. “And I don’t want my first time against a wall.”
Her gaze flicked toward the corner of the room. “Or with an audience.”
I followed her eyes to the camera. My jaw tightened, and I forced myself to let her go, stepping back slowly even though every muscle in my body was screaming to close the distance again.
