Page 47 of His Forced Bride
He steps back as they swing wide, and I see my new prison.
The room beyond is enormous, easily three times the size of the guest room.
A king-sized bed dominates the space, covered in deep burgundy bedding that matches the heavy curtains.
The windows are dark, the charcoal sky not providing any light, and a sitting area with leather chairs occupies one corner.
It's beautiful and luxurious and completely wrong.
"This isn't my room," I tell him, shaking my head.
"It is now." Yuri moves to a small bar cart near the windows, pouring champagne into two crystal flutes.
"You're my wife. This is where we sleep."
"I won't share a bed with you."
He holds out one of the glasses.
When I don't take it, he sets it on the nearby dresser.
"You will. Eventually."
The certainty in his voice ignites something hot and vicious in my chest.
"No, I won't."
"Inessa—"
"No."
I back away from him, putting space between us.
"I said the words. I signed the papers. I played my part in your little theater production. But that's all this is—a performance. I will never be your wife in any real sense."
My arms flail about as I talk, and I'm adamant that I won't do what he wants.
Though, the way he watches me reminds me of that kiss, and the heat creeps back into my cheeks at the thought of how possessive he is.
He studies my face, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a key, setting it next to the champagne glass.
"What's that?"
"The key to this room.
And to the front door, the garden gate, and the garage—a master key.
You're not a prisoner anymore, Inessa.
You're my wife.
You can go wherever you want in this house."
I stare at the small piece of metal. Freedom, or at least the illusion of it.
"I can leave?"
"You can."
