Page 9 of Dark Bratva Christmas
I take it, the old man’s skin like ice to my warmth. I prefer to keep my coldness where it belongs. My goddamn heart.
“Deal,” I say, forcing a smile on my face.
“Then it's done. You will marry my daughter and our blood will mix when she gives birth to your child,” Boris says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll arrange everything for the wedding. The sooner the better.”
“We can do it tomorrow,” I say, sparking an eager grin from Boris.
If I'm going to get married, I might as well get it the hell over with.
Besides, then the real fun can begin. Torturing Catarina.
Chapter three
Catarina
I need to get out of this prison. I need to figure out why my father is letting this happen.
I lie in bed, surrounded by Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count higher than I could possibly care to imagine, staring up at the ceiling. I might be in a cage, but it's a gilded cage. And I mean that literally, as in it is lined with gold.
But it doesn’t make me feel better.
Every inch of this room drips with opulence. When you have as much money as the Volkovs do, you have to find creative ways to spend it. I guess adding dainty lace trimming to the ceiling and lining it with actual gold flakes is a good way to flush your hard-earned money down the drain.
At least we don’t do that gaudy shit at home.Petrovs prefer a different, more modern sort of elegance. There’s something about gold that gives me the ick.
But I still can't ignore the part of me that wants to explore this estate and take inventory of all the little details like that. I lift myself from my stomach to my elbows and stare at my own reflection in the oversized mirror hanging above the wardrobe in front of the bed.
The day after I arrived, the maid came in and filled it with clothes that were my exact size. The kind of clothes that the ultra-rich know and love and gatekeep from the rest of the world.
It’s an insult, really. I’d preferred to have my own things.
But at this rate, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to fuckingrotin this room.
My eyes shift to the clock, seeing that it’s nearly 10:00 a.m., and it makes me miss my phone. I miss my friends—if you could even call them that. Still, I miss my cousin, Irina. She’s the closest thing I have to a best friend.
Ugh.At least I can betsheis worried about me. Even if my father isn’t.
I shut my eyes and hold them that way until Mikhail’s limp body fills my lids. Immediately, I force them back open and let out asigh as my stomach knots up with grief. Maybe someday, it’ll go away.
Maybe.
Before I can ponder it any further, the door bursts open and I jump up, looking at the swarm of people rushing into my room with a hint of panic pumping in my veins.
“Could you not give me a second?” I demand, jumping out of the bed and jerking my oversized shirt down to cover as much of my legs as possible. My face grows embarrassingly hot. “What the hell is going on?”
“Hmm.” An older woman with straight white hair and lips morphed into a permanent frown approaches me. She looks me up and down, inhaling deeply as she wrinkles her nose. When have you last bathed?” Her Russian accent is so thick, I can barely understand her.
I don't answer the question. The truth is, I don't know the answer. But if I did, I wouldn’t tell her anyway.
She narrows her eyes as I fold my arms across my chest. “Go. Now!” She points to the bathroom.
I open my mouth to say something in defiance but decide not to. Idoneed a shower. But still, I’m doing this for me. Not her.
And that’s what I keep telling myself as I hurry off to the bathroom.
I barely register everything going on around me as a maid—the one I terrified, named Helena—rushes into the bathroom and turns on the water.
“I can handle it,” I say as she holds out her hand to help me step into the ornate, oversized clawfoot tub.
