Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Marina’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, but I held her firm, my grip possessive, inescapable.
“She still had your name,” she said. “Why will it protect me when it didn’t protect her?”
“It will.” My voice hardened. “That is all you need to know.”
She didn’t argue. Not this time.
Because it wasn’t a discussion.
I pressed my lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her, committing it to memory. I ran my hand down her back, over the curve of her waist, savoring the feel of her skin beneath my palm.
She would understand soon.
Tomorrow, everything would be final.
“The wives of my cousins will come to prepare you for the wedding,” I told her. “You’ll like them.”
I traced slow circles on her skin, my fingers skimming the delicate dip of her spine, grounding myself in the sensation of her body wrapped in mine.
“Everything else is being handled. You don’t have to do anything.” My voice dropped lower, soft but firm, the final stroke of control. “Tomorrow, you will become Marina Ivanova. Once we take care of a few loose ends here, we will return to Moscow. And I will make sure the world knows exactly who you are. My wife. And that no one, no one, will ever touch what belongs to me.”
She said nothing.
I assumed she had finally given up fighting the inevitable.
Maybe she had realized what I had known from the start. I was going to take care of her. I was going to provide for her, protect her, strip away every burden. Soon, all of this would feel like nothing more than a distant dream.
"When we get to Russia, we’ll set up your new bank accounts with your allowance, and we will build a life together," I murmured, my voice laced with the promise of certainty. "You’ll love the house. You can decorate it however you want, make it your home."
She didn’t respond.
Her silence wrapped around me like a blanket, heavy but not unwelcome.
My eyelids grew heavy. It had been too long since I’d had a restful sleep, and now, with Marina in my arms, Oleg dead, and Solovyov being dealt with, I could finally rest.
There were still loose ends to tie up.
The danger wasn’t entirely over.
If Artem had his way, the family could be headed into a civil war.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
For now, the Ivanov clan was whole. United.
This compound and everyone inside it was safe. Marina had been thoroughly fucked, punished, and then fucked again.
She would be my wife in less than twenty-four hours.
For the first time since my disastrous marriage to Veronika, there was no hollow pit in my gut. No creeping disappointment clawing up my throat. No burning shame of being a cuckolded joke.
All of it had been eradicated.
In its place was something warmer, heavier, something foreign. It took me several moments to name the feeling. Contentment. A rare luxury for men like me.
Was this what Gregor and the others felt when they held their wives? Was this why his focus had shifted, why his edge had softened, no, been refined?
Damien once told me that the love of a good woman didn’t make you weaker. It shifted your priorities.
Looking down at the sleeping goddess in my arms, I was starting to understand.
I wasn’t weaker for her.
She strengthened me.
For her, I would burn the world to ash.
For her, I would conquer nations, kill any man who dared touch her, topple governments if she so much as whispered a command. If her life was ever in danger, I would erase every last threat without hesitation.
But I would rather spend my time worshiping her.
Marina stirred in her sleep, pressing her tearstained face into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, my lips pressing against her forehead, savoring the feel of her body curled into mine.
My obsession.
My wife.
She would come to accept it. She’d have no choice. Running was no longer an option for her.
CHAPTER 38
MARINA
“It’s like it was made for you,” Yelena said as I stepped out of the dressing room.
I hated that she was right.
The boutique was small but luxurious, scented with expensive perfumes and fresh peonies, the kind of place where real brides came to choose the gown they’d dreamed of since childhood. The soft glow of crystal chandeliers bathed everything in warm, golden light. Plush carpets silenced my steps as I walked toward the raised platform, mirrors surrounding me on all sides.
And the dress. God, the dress.
It was stunning.
The delicate white lace was threaded with tiny, glimmering crystals, catching the light with every movement. The sheer bodice molded to my torso, illusion sleeves clinging to my arms in an elegant, almost ethereal way. It gave the impression of modesty—until my gaze flickered lower, where the sweetheart neckline showcased my cleavage, and the high slit promised stolen glimpses of my legs with every step. The skirt flared in dramatic waves of lace and tulle, regal and impossibly perfect.