by Jane Henry
Aren will give me money if he’s feeling generous, but I don’t like to take handouts from him, and he won’t allow me to get a job. It isn’t for safety reasons, though. He doesn’t much care about my safety or really anything about me at all. If he did, he never would have allowed—but no, I won’t think about that now. I can’t.
Aren doesn’t want me to share anything about the brotherhood.
I look at the time. It’s five thirty-three. I stretch and toss the phone back on my bed, then go to throw some clothes on.
I get up every day before nearly everyone else on the compound except Camila, the resident chef. She’s teaching me how to cook and being in the kitchen with her is the highlight of my day.
I throw on a pair of black leggings and a black top, oversized, bulky, and unlikely to draw suspicion. I draw my fingers through my unruly wavy hair and quickly brush my teeth. I don’t wear makeup or bother fixing my hair. My clothes are intentionally muted and frumpy. The less the men that I live with notice me, the better. Before, they would sometimes look my way, and occasionally one would even talk to me. But not since what Aren calls “the accident.”
I make my mind blank as I go downstairs. I focus instead on the huevos rancheros and quiche we’re making today. Camila’s specialty lies in Mexican foods, but my brother insists every morning they have both Mexican and American options.
“Buenos días, preciosa,” Camila says. She’s a middle-aged woman with dark hair graying around the temples, barely five feet tall. She’s tying an apron around her ample waist.
“You are literally the only person in the world that would call me that,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. She knows as well as I do that I’m not beautiful.
But she only shakes her head and smiles sadly. “Beauty is inside and out, Caroline,” she says. “Never forget that.” I roll my eyes at the cliché but take secret solace in her words. I have never forgotten that, and it’s the one thing that I hold onto. I work hard at not letting myself grow bitter or angry. In a family like mine, it’s an uphill battle.
The large front door clangs open and shut, and footsteps approach the kitchen. I stare at Camila in surprise. No one ever comes in here this early, and I can’t be seen. My brother would lose his mind if he knew I was in here, doing servant’s work, and if my brother is here to see me, there’s a good chance Andros is with him. And I despise Andros.
Voices approach. I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a groan, when I recognize both Aren and Andros’ voices. They’re growing closer. I hate Andros with a fiery passion and don’t want either of them to see me. Camila points wildly to the pantry and silently mouths, Go.
I run to the pantry just in time, crouching in the corner. God, I wish there was a door on this stupid thing.
“Good morning, Camila,” Aren says, helping himself to a muffin from a plate she’s already prepared this morning. “By any chance have you seen Caroline?” Politeness is a dead giveaway that he’s about to do something terrible.
“No, sir,” Camila lies. I cringe. If he finds out she’s lying, he’ll punish her, or worse, fire her. She has a family to support. She lied for me. I’ll remember that.
“Really?” he says. I freeze at the icy tone of his voice. I know that tone well, and it sends a shiver of fear skating down my spine.
He knows I’m here.
I gasp when Camila screams. Oh, God, oh God. He’s hurting her.
“Tell me where she is,” he growls, and I feel my heartbeat race at the familiar sound of him cocking his gun. I don’t even make a conscious decision but scramble out of the pantry on all fours, shocked to see my brother holding Camila by the hair and Andros pointing a gun at her temple.
“Leave her alone!” I scream. “My God, you two are monsters. Leave her alone!”
I run to pull him off her, but Andros points the gun at me instead.
“There she is,” he says with sickening delight. “I told you she’d come running if we threatened the old lady.”
Camila whimpers.
“Let her go,” I say through clenched teeth, though my heart pounds in fear when I see Andros’ soulless eyes. “You want me, you have me.”
Andros snorts. “No one wants you, you stupid bitch.”
Aren laughs right along with him. I hate these two so much my vision goes temporarily blurry, and even though I know they’re douchebags, their jeering stings. I know no one wants me. Hearing someone say it is another thing altogether.
I hold my ground and glare at them. “Let her go.”
It’s obvious both of them are drunk and likely high, their eyes glassy. They haven’t even been to bed, I bet. Andros releases Camila and keeps his gun trained on me as Aren tells Camila to go home.
“You’re fired,” he says. “Pack your bags. You should have known better than to sneak around behind my back.” He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one right there in the kitchen. “You have fifteen minutes before I’ll get you a personal escort. Go.”
“Aren, you can’t! Don’t fire her!” My heart breaks at the sight of tears falling down Camila’s cheeks. I go to follow her, but Aren grabs me by the arm and yanks me to him.
“And you will come with me,” he says tightly. “Sneaking around my back, Caroline? Did you not think I’d find out?” He throws his cigarette down and stomps it out on the kitchen floor, leaving an angry black mark on the white tile.
I don’t say anything. I steel myself for whatever he plans on doing, resigned to the worst, but he doesn’t strike me this time or worse, leave me to Andros. Instead, he drags me out of the kitchen and toward his study. Dread gallops across my chest as we walk down the hall to his office, where he conducts most of his most vicious business. His office opens directly to the back of the house via a door in the back. I’ve seen boxes delivered through that door, men brought in for “private meetings,” and even bodies dragged out to be disposed of.
Terrible, wicked things happen behind these doors.
“I just wanted to learn how to cook,” I tell him.
“This isn’t about that,” he snaps, surprising me. Andros opens the door and he shoves me in before they shut and lock the door behind me. Aren takes my wrists and holds them to my sides.
“You’ll listen to me, little sister, and listen well,” he says. He’s so close to me I can see the red rims of his eyes and smell the whiskey on his breath. It pains me to see him like this. He looks so much like my mother with her soft brown hair and dark brown eyes. It would have killed her to see what my brother has become.
“Aren,” I plead. “You’re hurting me. Please, let me go.”
“Shut up,” he snaps.
I freeze. Something is wrong. Though he treats me badly, there’s a desperation in him I rarely see. A wild look in his eyes that makes fear shiver down my spine.
He shoves me toward Andros. He knows the wicked things Andros has done to me, though he denies it and has punished me for lying. He knows how I freeze in Andros’ presence and can’t bring myself to speak or move. Andros takes my wrists in his firm grasp and holds me in front of my brother. Aren holds my gaze with unsteady eyes.
“I’ve made an arrangement,” he says furiously, as if I forced his hand in this. “A win-win situation, one might say.”
I don’t respond, held tightly in Andros’ grasp but I’m surprised to see Andros freezes. Waiting. He doesn’t know, then?
“This afternoon, you’ll be taken to Atlanta, to a neutral brotherhood. The pakhan there will officiate at the ceremony.”
Andros is a statue. I’m not sure he’s even breathing, but I quickly forget about him because I’m trying to wrap my brain around what Aren has just said.
Wait. What?
Officiate what? I shake my head, confused.
“Your future husband will collect you there and take you back with him to Boston. I’m telling you this, so you know, not because you have a say. I want this done swiftly, before your future husband knows what you really look like.”
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I blink, unable to stop helpless tears forming in my eyes. I can’t stop him. I can’t control this.
“You arranged… my marriage?” I ask stupidly.
“You did what?” Andros asks, his voice taut with anger. “Are you fucking joking?” His protest doesn’t come out of concern for me, though. Of course he doesn’t want me away from here. Who else would he torment? And getting away from him is the only silver lining in what Aren is telling me.
“Yes,” Aren says, turning away from me with a look of disgust. “I don’t want you here anymore anyway. You’re a burden to me, and no one will ever have you. The key is to make sure he’s committed to you before he actually sees you.”
Anger boils up inside me so hard and fast I have to breathe through my nose, so I don’t snap at him and draw out his wrath. Tears blur my vision.
“Aren,” I whisper. “Why would you?”
But he won’t meet my eyes. He won’t talk to me.
“Give her to me,” he says, and it seems he surprises Andros. Perhaps Aren doesn’t think I lied about his friend after all, about what he did to me, and he doesn’t trust him. I stumble toward him and he grabs my arms.
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.
“We don’t take orders from her.” The buckle is pried from my fingers, and I’m forced under the restraints like a child. It feels symbolic, having even this small freedom taken.
What would my father think of me now? Would seeing me under the thumb of my brother make him angry? He’s rolling over in his grave at what my brother has done.
My eyes water as I look out the small window.
It doesn’t matter. None of it does. The only thing that matters now is my future.
I can fight this, or I can lean into this.
Chapter 3
Tomas
“Do you have confirmation from Aren that he followed through with his promise?” I don’t bother modulating my voice. I need an outlet, and Stefan easily bears my temper in stride.
He sits at his desk, nodding. “I do, brother,” he says, turning his phone over and showing me a picture. “That’s the plane with his sister on it, fifteen minutes away from arriving here.” He’s dressed in a suit and tie, already prepared to officiate. I myself am wearing my most formal attire. So much could go wrong at this juncture that we’ll waste no time.
I look at the picture on his phone and nod, but I say nothing else. I don’t trust Aren and won’t believe he’s followed through on his promise until I see his sister with my very own eyes, until she wears my ring on her finger and takes my surname as her own.
I despise that the bastard will be my brother-in-law, but I’ll have as little to do with him as possible. Though all of my contemporaries and associates are ruthless, we all live by a code of conduct we can’t deny. But Aren? He’s the lowliest of them all. Crass and self-serving, he’s a terrible leader who’s done nothing to earn the respect of his brothers.
Stefan sits back and eyes me, stroking the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. He’s Nicolai’s father, so it comes as no surprise that his eyes are the same vivid blue as Nicolai’s. He’s older, though, and wiser, more serious than Nicolai.
“You don’t trust Aren.”
“I do not. He agreed too readily.” I shake my head and look out the window. “Would you give your sister to a pakhan?”
“It would depend,” Stefan says reasonably. “I was raised to respect the laws of The Bratva. It might kill me to hand my sister over to another man, but if it was expected, I might. I wouldn’t want to, but I would d
o what is expected for the good of the brotherhood.”
“Right,” I mutter. I know he’s right, but there’s something about the agreement with Aren that doesn’t sit well with me. Something that troubles me in a raw, intuitive way that I can’t quite put my finger on. He agreed too readily. He didn’t fight it. He sent her to me as fast as he could, and demanded she be accompanied by half a dozen of his strike force, “for safety purposes.”
There was no interview. No questionnaire from him. Not even so much as a background check that I’m aware of. He seemed as if he were relieved to be rid of her, and that unsettles me.
Is she someone he doesn’t like? Is she defiant, or problematic in some way? That doesn’t bother me so much. I’m confident I can deal with defiance from a woman. I’m the pakhan, after all, used to giving orders and being obeyed, and she’ll learn her place quickly enough.
Or is there something else about her he doesn’t want me to know?
“Can you show me her picture?” I ask.
Stefan shakes his head. “They’ve not given me access to any of that footage.”
I scowl. There’s an air of mystery about this I don’t like. Would Nicolai have steered me wrong? He made good points about arranging a marriage, but I’m not sure this was the right decision.
I get to my feet and run my hands through my hair. “I have to get back to Boston as soon as possible,” I tell Stefan.
“I know,” he says, his eyes twinkling as he watches me. “Which is why you’ve asked me to officiate tonight, correct?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Are we ready?”
Stefan gets to his feet. “Of course. When Marissa heard who we were bringing here, she begged to be allowed time to help prepare Caroline for the ceremony. So your betrothed will be brought to Marissa and Nicolai’s apartment, and both Marissa and Nicolai will bear witness as you take your vows. Once everything is official, I’ve arranged for you to have a private apartment for the evening, dinner, and chilled champagne.”
I smile at that. “Thank you.”
