Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(25)

“You’re talking as though we live in, like, Victorian England. Babies are born out of wedlock all the time. They aren’t shunned by society. We don’t paint a big scarlet letter on their chest and leave them in the woods to be eaten by wolves.”

“I don’t give a fuck about society,” he growls. “I give a fuck about my family’s rules. About my family’s honor.”

“But I’m not part of your family!”

His gray eyes might as well be ice. “You will be.”

This can’t be happening. This cannot possibly be happening.

But I’m too exhausted to argue. Whether it’s from the accident or the pregnancy or both, I slump back in the seat and close my eyes.

Before I know it, the car comes to a stop. I open my eyes, but Misha is already out of the vehicle. A second later, my door opens. I look up, expecting armed goons or the Grim Reaper there to drag me out kicking and screaming.

It’s just him, though. Although arguably, that might be worse.

He offers me his hand and those eyes glisten like molten silver. I ignore it and get out on my own. I’m trying to rally up counterarguments when I freeze, my gaze shifting to the palatial modern mansion behind him.

“Where are we?” I breathe.

It’s a castle. That’s the only word for it, no matter how many times I rack my brain for alternatives.

Crushed gravel raked into perfect lines leads up to a broad marble staircase. Beyond that is an intimidatingly massive facade of rough-hewn gray sandstone. Immaculate hedges, dark and thorny, surround the foot of the building in one unbroken green wall. Above those is one double-height window after the next, each trimmed in black metal. The house wraps around me like two arms in a hug I never asked for. Both the east and west wings rise into needle-sharp spires at the top, while a glass bubble arcs over the atrium and sucks sunlight greedily into the belly of the home. I stand and gawk for a long time until my neck hurts from craning back for so long.

“Home sweet home,” Misha drawls sarcastically. “I imagine it’s a slight upgrade over your current hovel.”

That snaps me out of my awed state. “I’m not living here.”

“Actually, you are.” He says it so casually, no doubt at all in his mind that he’ll get exactly what he wants.

“Your house may be big and pretty, but I can’t be bought.”

“I’m not trying to buy you. I don’t have to. We’re getting married, Paige. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he heads towards the staircase, leaving me with no choice but to follow him inside.





18

PAIGE

I try very hard to act unimpressed as we walk in.

I fail miserably.

The inside is a surprising contrast to the way the house looked from the outer drive. When I was out there, it was a giant middle finger to the world. Thorned bushes and sharp corners that screamed, Stay away.

In here, everything just says Stay.

The floating wooden staircase is blond and soaks up the sun from the skylights overhead. Long, satiny couches in a muted pale blue swoop around a sitting area, encircling a white-marbled hearth. The walls are filled with art. Bright, vivid, beautiful art that makes you smile before you can quite figure out why.

It’s a beautiful home. A welcoming home. The kind of home you dream about making for yourself one day.

It doesn’t matter, though.

It’s not going to be mine.

“Misha!” I call, forcing him to stop and turn to face me. “This is all just a big, weird joke, right?

You’re not really going to insist on getting married just because I’m pregnant.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What about… what about love?”

He blinks, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Love?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping forward. “Shouldn’t you be in love with the woman you’re going to marry?”

His eyebrows pull together. “Being in love with my wife is a distraction I’d rather avoid.”

“You can’t be serious.”

But the flat expression on his face tells me that that’s exactly what he is.

“Who hurt you?” I grit out. He doesn’t answer. In fact, he grimaces like he wants to get as far away from me as possible. “Fine. What about me, then? Don’t I deserve to marry someone I love?”

“You tried that once,” he points out. “How did that work out for you?”

I recoil like he slapped me. “That is a low blow.”

“It’s also a hard truth,” he growls, taking a threatening step toward me. “You can count on me for more of those, if nothing else. I will keep you safe, Paige. I will give you security and protection. I will make sure you’re comfortable for the rest of your life. And our child will have everything the world has to offer. Love is fickle bullshit. The things I’m offering you are real.”

I see a flash of the trailer I spent my formative years in. I remember all those nights I came home from school and found nothing but cockroaches and crumbs in the pantry.

Even worse was when I came home to an empty trailer that stayed that way for a few days or weeks at a time. Then my parents would stumble in like they’d never left. Like everything was normal.