Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I am frozen in place as that ominous black door swings open and three men I know, three men I thought I trusted come in ready to take me.
I look at all of them in shock. I can’t run, as they’re all much bigger and faster and I’m seriously outnumbered. I look to Peter, the most sympathetic of the bunch. I thought he was my friend.
“Peter,” I plead. “I know you’re obedient to your brigadier, but how could you?”
“Come, Caroline,” he says, more gently than I’d expect, especially given how strong his grip is when he takes me from Aren’s hands. “I know you’re fighting this, but many in our brotherhood have found that an arrangement has suited them.”
“You’re a traitor. All of you. Spineless!” I don’t even recognize my own voice as it rises in pitch and breaks.
“Caroline,” Peter says more sternly. “Behave, or this will be worse for you and you know it.” He’s warning me so I don’t upset my brother and incur his wrath. “Don’t make Aren angry.”
“Fuck you,” I say. “I thought you were my friend.” That gets a flicker of remorse from him but doesn’t stop the inevitable.
I’m being dragged outside, to a jet that waits. My God, I haven’t even had a chance to pack my bags. They’re sending me away without a second glance, with nothing but the clothes on my back.
“It might go well for you,” Peter repeats, hopefully, as if he wants to alleviate his conscience. “Don’t fight this.”
Voices rise behind me. Andros and Aren fighting, but I can’t think about that now. I can’t worry about them. It’s hard to form logical thoughts with the fears that swirl in my head like a brewing tornado. I’m being taken away from the only home I’ve known.
I’m crying freely now. I hate that I’ve succumbed to this. I hate what they’ve done to me.
But more than anything, I hate that there’s no one I would say good-bye to if I could.
I’m brought onto a private jet, and six full-grown men join us. Peter is not one of them. I know their faces, but not their names. My brother has intentionally chosen the men I know nothing about to escort me to our destination.
Am I that dangerous?
Do I have any way to escape this? I know the Bratva men are fearless and powerful. Even if I did escape, they would find me.
I never expected that I would be subjected to a forced marriage. I honestly don’t know what I expected. My brother considers me useless, and he likely thinks he copped one over on the man who has agreed to marry me. I swallow the lump in my throat.
But I was born into Bratva life. I was brought into this world shackled to expectations and a future I couldn’t control.
What will my new husband think of me? There isn’t an escape from my inevitable future at this point. Even if I ran, they would find me, and then what?
I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders.
My emotions swing like a pendulum, and for a brief moment I try to think positively. I’m a student of literature. I’ve read about arranged marriage. There is a rich history of arranged marriages turning out well, but my life is no fairy tale. What if the man I marry despises me? Finds me as hideous as the men of our brotherhood? What if he’s mean or cruel? I’ve met men from every walk of life in connection with our brotherhood. He could be anyone.
Old and wizened. I shudder. I can’t imagine being touched by an old, unattractive man. Or what if he’s young and ruthless? I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve met many just like that, with hair-trigger tempers and a swagger in their step, and I’d almost prefer the old, shriveled man.
What if he’s domineering? God, I swear they’re all like that. Even when obeying their superiors, the lowest men on the totem pole are bred to protect the honor of the brotherhood. They’re ruthless, merciless.
I shake my head. I have no idea who he will be or how he’ll treat me. There’s no use speculating about what could be.
My fate is sealed.
But what if he hates me? What if he turns me out on the street because he despises even looking at me? Will he reject me, like everyone else has? I’m not sure which is worse—the prospect of rejection or ill treatment.
I bite my lip and look out the window. One of the men sits me down and buckles me in.
“I can do that myself,” I snap. “Get your hands off of me.”
To my surprise, he actually does, giving me space to buckle myself, but a second man behind him growls out an order in clipped Russian.