Page 32 of His Forced Bride
The glass is thick enough to stop bullets, which means my fists won't make a dent.
I check the door to the hallway—locked from the outside, as expected.
The bathroom offers no better options.
The window is smaller and positioned too high to reach, even with a chair.
The mirror is mounted flush with the wall, impossible to remove.
Even the towel racks are bolted down, eliminating potential weapons.
I sink onto the bed and let the reality of my situation wash over me.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was planning a wedding to Dominic, worried about seating arrangements and flower choices.
Now I'm trapped in his father's compound, preparing to marry a man who terrifies and infuriates me in equal measure.
The rage builds slowly, starting in my chest and spreading outward until my hands shake with it.
This isn't how my life was supposed to go.
I was supposed to marry for alliance, yes, but to someone young and manageable.
Someone I could control, or at least influence.
Instead, I'm facing a future with a man who offers marriage proposals at gunpoint and who will never respect my desires or treat me well.
This definitely isn't what my father would've wanted for me, and Yuri is not and never was a friend to this family.
Besides, who will even come to a wedding like this?
Dominic's whole family thinks I was to marry him.
If they see me prepared to walk down the aisle to his father, they will know I'm being coerced.
That thought puts me a little more at ease, and I find myself able to stand by the window and watch the breeze bend the trees outside.
At eight o'clock exactly, footsteps approach in the hallway.
The lock disengages with a soft beep, and the door opens to reveal the massive guard from earlier.
His scarred face reveals nothing as he waits for me to follow him, but I don't move right away.
"I'm not hungry," I protest, turning away from him.
"The boss is expecting you," he grumbles, and then he cracks his fingers very loudly.
I get the idea quickly.
I can walk to dinner or be carried there.
Neither option appeals to me, but at least walking preserves some dignity.
When we walk into the dining room, Yuri stands near the windows, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys his domain.
He's changed from his earlier suit into dark slacks and a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing the tattoos that crawl up his forearms.
The casual clothes don't make him less intimidating.
