Page 11 of A Bride for the Mafia King

He doesn’t say a word to me as we pull away from the estate. Just gives the driver some quick instructions in their native tongue and settles in beside me. His blue eyes are hidden beneath a pair of shades, his face expressionless.

Despite the sunglasses, I can feel his eyes on me. Those harsh perfect cheekbones give him away, his face is turned in my direction. His mouth is set in a hard line. I try not to fidget under his persistent gaze—and fail miserably. My fingers pull at the lace of my dress and then smooth it. Over and over again.

Every time I risk a glance at him, his expression is unchanged. As if this is any other day and both of our lives haven’t just drastically changed. I can’t help but hate how flawless he looks—despite the scars—the line of his jaw reflecting under the city lights.

But it isn’t just that. This man is exquisitely designed to intimidate. His stature screams danger and death. That hard body does things to me that I can’t quite justify in my mind just yet. I can imagine how strong he is, how those large hands of his would fill against my bare skin.

More than that I can imagine how quickly they could snuff the life out of someone as they closed around their trachea. How quickly and efficiently he could snap someone's neck in a single motion.

I gulp at that thought. Am I any safer in his hands then I was at the hands of the Don?

Finally, I clear my throat. “So…”

“Da?”

“Is there…” I hesitate. “I mean, are there other Russian, um, traditions for the wedding night that I should know about?”

His brow arches, considering me. I can feel the weight of his amusement in the small space even before he smiles. My mouth falls in an O at the shift in him.

“Are you asking if I plan to toss you into a room full of vodka-drunk men and play drinking games to guess what lingerie you’re wearing beneath that gown there?”

My face goes hot, a blush racing up my neck and settling over my face. “I’m asking if there’s anything I should expect.”

He laughs at that, a sound so deep and rich that I can’t help but laugh lightly myself.

“I said all that,” he waves his hand dismissively, “to get rid of your brother.”

Still smiling, he leans back, examining me once more. His eyes roam my body. The relaxed way his body responds to the lack of space between us is provocative.

“You lied to him?” I say, aghast. No one dares lie to Nico. “And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says, feigning innocence with a deep chested laugh. “Can I not look at my new wife? And I strategized, dear Eva. Lying would be telling your brother that I don’t intend to fuck his precious sister tonight and every night for as long as we are wed.”

My blush deepens at his words. I should’ve been prepared for his straightforward bluntness—Nico is the same way—but yet it surprises me.

“I don’t care for fanfare,” he continues. “My men have far better things to do than clap and cheer while I pretend to smile on command. We’re not here to celebrate. This is a business agreement, after all. No, we—you, me, your brother—we all want the same thing. Power.”

His gaze sweeps over me—deliberate and slow, taking me in. From my lips to my throat, to the way the dress hugs my waist. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re darker. Lustful.

“Though,” he says slowly, “there are some parts of this deal that I’m looking forward to.”

My breath catches. A bead of fear runs down my spine as I wonder, for the first time, if I’ve traded one evil for another. He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t move closer or force me to come to him. But the weight of that look makes me gulp in anticipation.

“I may not care about old games,” he murmurs, his accent thick, “but I can think of many far more exciting ways that we could spend the evening.”

Heat coils between my legs, and I can feel my nipples harden against the fabric of my underbust. A response that no other man has ever elicited before.

“Of course you can,” I say quietly, looking away.

His laugh comes again, lighter this time. Raw. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m married to the head of the Russian mafia,” I snap. “Of course I’m nervous.”

“Good, that means you’re smart.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. He’s dangerous. Controlled. Calculated. And now, I belong to him.

I realize then that I’m not afraid of him.