Ruthless Doms Boxset

by Jane Henry

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Think nothing of it. Nice to see you smile, brother.”

  It’s all he says, but he doesn’t need to say more. I’ve heard it my entire life.

  Loosen up.

  Relax.

  I do loosen up, and I’m not always serious, but when I’m on the cusp of making a monumental decision that will not only affect my life but the good of my brotherhood, I don’t fucking loosen up.

  Stefan claps me on the back. “Another hour, and she’ll be yours.”

  I’ve treated Nicolai and Stefan well, and in turn, they’ve become my most trusted allies. My closest friends and confidantes.

  “Now while the plane lands and our car prepares to bring your future wife to our compound, let’s meet Nicolai and Marissa, shall we?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s go then,” Stefan says. He sighs as he opens the door to his office. “You know, many people scorn the thought of an arranged marriage. But in many ways, it removes so many of the complications of relationships.”

  “Right,” I tell him dryly. It also introduces a whole host of further complications. “Easy for a man who isn’t going through with this to say.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. “With the blessing of her family, you don’t have to worry about them interfering. She’s had no previous lover, so there will be no jealousy or baggage. And she’s young, still what one might say, in her formative years.”

  I grunt but don’t respond. She’s twenty-one years old and has never gone to college. I wonder if her brother is one of the old-fashioned sorts who doesn’t believe in higher education for women.

  “You don’t have to worry about seducing her, or having her fall in love with you,” he continues.

  At that, I grow serious. Though her duty to me will trounce any romantic notion of love, I can’t help but wonder if feelings between us will grow. I’ve seen arranged marriages in which both became devoted to one another and some that merely fulfilled a duty, though I’ll admit I don’t much care about her feelings toward me as much as I do her obedience and loyalty.

  We step outside and head to a little walkway that takes us to a separate apartment. Almost like a series of in-law apartments, the Atlanta Bratva’s quarters are unique from others I’ve visited. Small, private residences all lie within a gated community, though the main estate, large and sprawling, is where most of the men conduct their business.

  Why the hell did I let Nicolai talk me into this?

  “What if she’s hideous?”

  He looks at me curiously. “I thought you looked at her before you agreed to this?”

  I shake my head. “It was an old picture, taken years ago,” I tell him.

  “And she was beautiful then?”

  “She looked it.”

  Stefan shrugs. “It’s unlikely she’s grown less attractive.”

  “It isn’t unlikely. It’s really fucking likely. And what if she’s a nag?”

  He quirks a brow at me. “You’ll have to teach her not to be.”

  “And if she’s willful and defiant?”

  Stefan’s eyes twinkle, and a corner of his lips quirks up.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you, pakhan of one of the most powerful brotherhoods in all of America, don’t know how to handle a spoiled little girl?”

  I can’t help but smile at that. “I think I can handle it.”

  He nods. “You can, and you will.”

  I’m not really worried, but somehow feel that asking Stefan these questions is a sort of rite of passage, like seeking the advice of a father before taking vows. It helps to voice my fears and hear his calm, steady response. And I like Stefan. He has a paternal air about him others don’t. My own father would have sneered at me and decked me for asking anything at all, for committing the unforgivable crime of displaying weakness.

  When we arrive at Nicolai and Marissa’s door, we pause at the sound of raised voices behind it. Stefan looks at me hesitantly before he knocks, and the voices cease. A minute later, Nicolai comes to the door, his face flushed and blue eyes sparking.

  “Welcome,” he says tightly, gesturing for us to come in. Marissa stands inside the doorway to their kitchen wearing a little black dress, her arms crossed on her chest, glaring. She’s heavy with child, one of the youngest women married into the brotherhood, but she holds herself erect and gives me a look that would rival the ferocity of a much older woman.

  “Marissa,” I say in greeting, as if she’s just welcomed me in politely and offered me a cup of tea.

  “Tomas,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “My wife and I have a difference of opinion when it comes to witnessing your marriage,” Nicolai explains curtly, shutting the door behind him.

  “It isn’t right,” Marissa says, ignoring the fierce look Nicolai shoots at her.

  I point silently to my chest, asking him if I can interfere. I wouldn’t normally butt in at all, but Marissa and I are friends. Nicolai leans against the arm of a sofa in the middle of the living room and nods, giving me permission to speak to her.

  “Be specific, Marissa,” I tell her. “What exactly do you object to?”

  “Arranging a marriage,” she says, her eyes pleading with me. “Get to know her, Tomas. Let her get to know you. Don’t just steal her and—and—” she looks at Stefan and flushes madly. “Make her yours without even the courtesy of knowing her!” She doesn’t want to mention me fucking my new wife in front of her father-in-law. I, however, have no such qualms.

  “You don’t want me to rape her. Do you really not know me better than that by now?” Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open.

  “But there are—aren’t there rules governing the timeframe for…” she looks to Stefan again, still not wanting to speak frankly about sex and arrangements in front of her father-in-law.

  “Consummating the marriage?” I ask her, barely checking the desire to laugh. “Yes, of course. If need be, I’ll take my time. Traditional Bratva regulations expect an arranged marriage between two brotherhoods to be consummated within three days.” What I don’t tell her is I don’t give a fuck about traditional regulations, and I’ll take my damn time. But I’m not saying that out loud.

  “Three days?” she says. “That’s not long at all! You don’t even know her!”

  “It’s long enough,” I tell her. “You underestimate me, Marissa.” I won’t abuse my new wife, but I will have my way.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but then looks at Nicolai, frowns, and closes her mouth.

  “Do you know me to be a fair man?” I ask her.

  “Well, yes,” she begins, “But you’re… you’re stern,” she says, still flushing pink. “Very stern. You command men in your group with an iron fist. What if you scare her?”

  I shrug. “What if I do?” I hope I do. I’d rather be feared than disrespected or disobeyed.

  “It isn’t right that a newlywed woman fear her husband!”

  “According to whom?” My tone sharpens, my patience waning. “It’s perfectly reasonable in the eyes of the Bratva. And anyway, let me ask you a question,” I continue. I need to remind her of her own experience, her own role in this. “Is having a stern husband a bad thing? You ought to know.” Nicolai is no pushover. Thirteen years her senior, he was her bodyguard and protector, and though he adores her with a fiery passion, I’ve seen him take her in hand with my own eyes. And it works for them.

  “I—well, I wouldn’t know any other way,” she reluctantly admits, which earns a chuckle from Nicolai. She shoots him a look of hurt, as if he’s betrayed something between them, but he ignores her and shakes his head, walking over to her.

  “I have to admit, your concern for her is admirable, my love,” he says, his tone softer now. “But I trust Tomas, and he will be a good husband to whomever he marries.” He lowers his voice and gives her a serious look. “And now that’s enough questioning Tomas. He is marrying Caroline Koslov whether you approve or not, but we owe him
this, Marissa. Lest you forget, it is because of Tomas that you and I are together.”

  I don’t speak, allowing Nicolai to persuade her in his own way. Looking from me to Nicolai, she finally nods. She inhales, then lets her breath out slowly. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll be witness.” Nicolai takes her arm and leads her into the living room.

  Stefan’s phone rings.

  “Yes? Bring her to Nicolai’s,” he says. They’re here. The tension in the room visibly heightens when Stefan hangs up his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He turns to me. “She’s arrived, and they’re on their way.” He furrows his brow.

  “What is it?” I ask. “You look perplexed.”

  “They said it’s their tradition to veil a bride before marriage, and they will not lift the veil until you’ve said your vows.”

  I give him a curious look. “Fair enough.”

  Stefan shakes his head. “It concerns me,” he says. “Is there something they’re hiding?”

  “Like she’s ugly?” Marissa asks, giving me a look that dares me to question my future wife’s looks. “Maybe there’s more to a relationship than looks anyway.”

  “That’s enough,” Nicolai says to her, giving her a pointed look.

  “I agree, Marissa,” I say to her. “She was pretty enough when—”

  But a knock comes at the door and we all fall silent. Nicolai opens it. I can’t see beyond him, but when he steps aside, I see a small, veiled woman flanked on all sides by men. She wears clothes so dark and baggy; I can’t see her figure at all. Her hands are clasped below the veil, her head is bowed. She might as well be wearing a paper bag over her entire body for all I can observe of her.

  “Come in,” Nicolai says.

  I try to see my future bride’s face, but though the veil is sheer, I see nothing. The thick, clumsy veil and dark, muted clothing make for an almost macabre appearance. I frown at the group that enters.

  What game are they playing?

  “The bride has requested she see her female witness before the ceremony,” one of the men announces.

  I nod. “Of course,” I agree, even though my heart hammers in my chest like a jackknife, and I want to get this over with as soon as possible. She isn’t getting the elaborate wedding with a gown and party afforded a traditional wife of Russia, so I suppose a few minutes to fix her makeup or whatever it is she wants is reasonable. Marissa eagerly takes my betrothed by the arm and leads her to the bedroom. They shut the door behind them, and we all stand in silence.

  At first there’s no sound at all, but a few seconds later, I hear Marissa’s familiar voice and the softer, higher pitched voice of my future wife. I can’t hear what either of them say. They talk for long minutes, and I tap my foot impatiently as I wait. What is she asking her? What is she helping her do? What are they saying about me? I give them ten minutes before my patience is gone.

  I stalk to the door and rap on it. “That’s enough,” I say through the closed door. “Marissa, bring her out here.”

  Silence, a few more whispered words, then the door opens, and the two women return to the room. Marissa won’t meet my eyes. My impatience and apprehension grow.

  “Take your bride’s hand,” Stefan says. “And join me by the fireplace.”

  I do. Her hand is smaller than mine, freezing cold, and clammy. On instinct, I take her cold hand in both of mine to warm her, but I don’t say anything to alleviate her fear. I need to read her first, to assess her temperament. If she’s contrary or willful, she’ll learn to fear and respect me.

  The ceremony is brief, utilitarian, and within minutes, it’s time to say our vows. I say mine in Russian, pleased she does the same. Her voice is clear and musical, like church bells, and it stirs something in me to hear her vow to love, honor, and obey, words that now are merely rote with little meaning, but vows I’ll hold her to. Most of them, anyway. The love is optional. Honor and obedience are not. I slide the ring Stefan gives me on her tiny finger.

  I’ve mentally prepared myself for the unveiling. I don’t anticipate her to be a raving beauty and have already decided I have a higher purpose. Stefan nods to me to remove her veil, and the poor thing actually whimpers a little. She trembles so badly I have to steady her arm before I even lift the veil.

  I grasp the edge of the veil, inhale deeply, and lift it, getting my first real glimpse of the woman I’ve made vows to.

  Her head is bowed, her eyes cast down, and tears stream down her cheeks. Why? I’m not sure. Tears don’t move me, but I will find out the reason she cries.

  I take her chin in my hand and tip her head upwards. I notice two things at once: she has the largest, most beautiful pale green eyes I’ve ever seen, framed in thick black lashes and brimming with tears, but furious. And second, down the side of her face, from cheek to jaw, runs an angry, vivid scar. A knife wound.

  I don’t think about my reaction but respond instinctively. Cupping her face in my hand, I draw my thumb from the top of the scar to the bottom. My hands shake in anger. I ignore the way she flinches and pulls away. I grab the small of her back to hold her in place, not allowing her to pull away from me. Heat rises in my chest when I vow then and there that I will make whoever did this to her pay, that anyone who would mar a woman’s face deserves a swift, merciless death. It could be any one of them. He could be standing in front of us now.

  In my anger, to prove she’s mine before the witnesses before us, I lean down and kiss my wife to seal our vows. It’s a quick, nearly chaste kiss, hard and fast. She nearly stumbles, and when I pull away from her those pretty green eyes shutter, her jaw tightens, and she turns away from me.

  Stefan looks from her to me in surprise but maintains composure.

  “Thank you for officiating,” I tell him, my back to the men who escorted her here. I grasp her elbow, so she doesn’t run, and hold Stefan’s eyes. He’s staring at her scar with undisguised surprise, but quickly schools his features. Still, I want her alone. Now.

  “Have your men escort our visitors to the exit,” I tell him. “Their job here is done.”

  I want those men gone as far away from her as possible.

  Stefan’s kind eyes grow hard, his jaw firming, before he turns to Nicolai and gives him instructions in Russian. One of the men protests, but I don’t even bother to look his way, trusting Nicolai and Stefan will make them leave.

  Marissa stands to my right, wringing her hands. I ignore everyone but Stefan. Once the others have vacated, I nod to him. “Show us to our room?”

  Chapter 4

  Caroline

  He hates me already, and we only just met. This was exactly what I feared and exactly what happened. I’ll never forgive Aren for putting me through this, for forcing my hand. I don’t know where I am or who I just married, or what’s in store for me from one minute to the next.

  The men who escorted me leave, and this man—my husband—holds my arm in a grip so tight it hurts. The first time I truly looked into his eyes, I saw what I feared: anger and repulsion. Though it doesn’t surprise me, I can’t help the way it stings like tearing open a wound all over again.

  I insisted I speak with the woman bearing witness to our vows, and they granted me that privilege. She seems nice enough, though our interaction was brief. She expected I wanted her to help fix my hair or do my makeup, but I don’t care about things like that. I knew it might be the only access I had to another woman who knew him, and I wanted her to tell me what my new husband was like. So I could prepare.

  “My name’s Marissa,” she said. I lifted my veil so we could see each other, and she quickly schooled her surprise when she saw my scar.

  “Caroline,” I responded. “I don’t need your help to prepare me for this farce of a ceremony,” I said bitterly. “We both know why I’m here. I want you to tell me what you know about my future husband.”

  Her brows shot up in surprise, but she quickly recovered, nodding. “A fair question,” she said, then she hesitated, biting her lip. “Your future husband is a g
ood man,” she finally said. “He was good to both me and my husband. He will treat you well, but you’d be wise not to defy him. He can be exacting and stern.”

  I flinched at those words. I’m very familiar with punishment at the hands of angry men, and I hate that it’s the first warning she gives me. What will he expect of me? What does she mean by exacting and stern?

  And what does she mean by good? A bowl of cereal for breakfast is a good breakfast. “Good” is the lamest adjective in the English language that tells me nothing at all about what I need to know.

  As if on cue, shortly after we had our brief, hushed conversation, he shouted for us to come back.

  Great. Way to make a good impression.

  And his reaction when he lifted the veil… I’ll never forget it. He looked as if he’d just won a prize and found it to be rotten, his lip curled in disgust and whole body taut with anger. I don’t know why he cupped my face. Maybe to still his hand that wanted to reject me, when he no longer could. Maybe to pretend to show affection for me in front of my brother’s men. His touch felt unlike anything I’ve felt before, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. It wasn’t tender, but possessive.

  We don’t even know one another, and he already grabs me and tosses me around like I’m a piece of property.

  And hell, I guess I am now.

  Property.

  His to do with as he will. There is no escape from Bratva life if one is born into it. Both marriage and birth seal the inevitable fate.

  I haven’t really even looked at him, I was so worried about the vows and his reaction to me. But now that we’re making our way to “our room,” as he called it, I sneak a surreptitious glance toward him.

  He’s a large man, bulky and strong, and even though he wears a suit, beneath the formal attire I can tell he’s muscled and powerful. This doesn’t surprise me. All men in The Bratva are expected to be. Though I see no visible tattoos, I know the ways of the Bratva. He’ll be marked with their signature ink along his back and arms. I don’t know his role, but if he’s of higher rank, he’ll bear more ink than the rest.

  His hair is a dark brown, on the longer side on top, and he sports a scruffy but well-trimmed beard. The eyes that looked at me seemed so dark they were nearly black, probing and intense, but now that he’s closer I can see flecks of gold. If he didn’t look so angry, he would be a handsome man, but I have to admit his bulk scares me a little. I’m sturdy but short, and he’s so much bigger than I am he moves me around as if I’m a cardboard cut-out, and not a living breathing human being. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me along, and I have no choice but to trot to keep up with his large, powerful strides.