Page 51 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
Her brows furrow again. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not sleeping in the guest room,” I tell her as plainly as possible to get my point across. “You’re my wife, which means you sleep inourbed.”
Lily stares at me in disbelief before murmuring, “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“I do. Crystal clear. I don’t care if you’re pissed off, confused, or ready to kill me. This is my non-negotiable.”
“And you want me to pretend like we’re a happy couple?”
“No. I want you to be real, and to stop running from this,” I murmur, taking a step closer. “Stop pretending like you don’t feel anything.”
Her eyes shine back at me, not with tears or unbridled joy, but sheer frustration.
Either way, I still want her. I need every damn piece of her.
“This isn’t going to help me forget what you’ve done to me,” Lily says, sounding almost pained while she slowly retreats closer to the hallway. “I still know who you are and where I am.”
I watch her move, but I don’t chase after her. Instead, I stay in place and try to wrangle those irritating feelings in me. “You don’t need to forget anything. I just need you to understand this doesn’t need to be a war.”
She lets go of a breath and turns away from me. “You never stop pushing.”
“And you never stop resisting.”
She leaves me without another word, forcing that silence to settle around me.
I listen to her footsteps while she moves upstairs, eventually hooking a left straight into my room—our room.
She may be mad at me still, but for now, I’ll take that as a win.
Chapter 17 - Lily
Even after weeks of enduring the circumstances I’ve found myself in, Mikhail is still vague about most things despite bringing me into the fold. He expects me to go where he wants without asking questions, but of course, I ask them anyway.
The drive is longer than I anticipate, and as we leave the Las Vegas Strip behind and continue down the highway, we move into bleak territory. At the very least, where the city turns more desolate.
The view moves by us in a blur while Mikhail pushes one of the Range Rovers on, and soon enough, we come across narrow roads and older houses. It’s quiet out this way while the sun hangs lower in the sky, preparing for the last portion of its descent.
I held my tongue for most of the drive, but now, curiosity gets the better of me.
“Where are we going?” I ask, glancing over at his side profile. His expression is cold and unreadable, of course, but he seems a little more serious than usual.
Mikhail doesn’t even look at me. “To a job.”
No further details.
Letting go of a slow breath, I sit back in the seat and focus on the prickle of irritation in my chest. “Most people would say they’re visiting a friend or going to the store or something and not leave the other person in the dark.”
He almost smiles in response. “I’m not most people.”
That much is obvious.
That familiar silence stretches on as Mikhail pulls off the main highway and takes a winding road that becomes increasingly secluded. More out of sight.
The houses are modest at best, and run-down at worst. Some of the front porches are caving in or have long since lost their paint. The yards are overgrown and not at all inviting. Even looking at the homes makes my stomach turn in knots.
A terrifying thought enters my mind as we continue to pass the occasional house, but the farther we go, the more scarce they become.
He’s taking me somewhere remote. Somewhere, most people wouldn’t look for a body.
