by Pippa Roscoe
However, Roman had been steadfast on this one thing. A deeply traditional man, he believed that only her husband should have that right, and his declaration had served only to make him seem even more perfect in her eyes, no matter how much she wanted to dissuade him of his conviction.
That night, when he had left, she had been bereft. It was as if that simple declaration of what could be between them, but wasn’t, had made her consumed with the desire to be his wife. It invaded her thoughts and heart with an insidiousness that Ella, in her naivety, believed was nothing less than true love.
So that when they had next met, when he had whisked her away to a candlelit dinner in a chateau overlooking the dips and swells of the rolling hillside, peppered with small terracotta towns and church towers and sprawling vineyards, she had seen nothing but the look of love in his eyes as he haltingly, almost hesitantly, admitted that he knew it was soon, knew it was quick, but he couldn’t remain quiet any longer. That he wanted her to be his wife, his love, his companion. She had almost interrupted his proposal with an agreement so ready, so earnest he had smiled and produced the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.
The art deco ring—a ruby encased in diamonds, set on dual silver bands which were, in turn, covered in more diamonds—looked as if it had come from her deepest fantasies. Roman had explained that ever since their first meeting in the woods he had imagined her in red. And it had touched Ella deeply that he too must have felt all that she had, from the first moment they had met.
But still his departure from France loomed over them. It was only when she shared her joyful news with Claudette that Ella saw and felt her every desire was achievable. Her grandmother’s insistence that she be freed from her caregiver duties gave Ella hope. But it also made her want to give something back in return. She knew in that moment that nothing less than having her grandmother present on her wedding day would make her the happiest bride in the world. Hoping beyond all hope that Roman would agree, she hesitantly broached her request to marry before he needed to return to Russia. His agreement was immediate and assured. But he had a request of his own—one that touched her very soul. Knowing how important her guardian was to her, he wished to return to Moscow on the eve of their nuptials and pay respect to the man who had given her so much.
So overwhelmed that he would consider her wants and needs, the small smattering of people she classed as family, soon to be stretched to include one more, Ella didn’t give much thought to what would happen next. Roman had already given her so much that she placed her trust and her future in his hands. A future he seemed to consider a little more than herself, for he presented her with a prenup, insisting her future and her father’s inheritance was and would always be hers, protected by the agreement he wanted her to sign, despite the fact she would willingly have not. It was as if he had thought of everything, and in those thoughts had put her first and foremost. And to a young woman who had always felt as if she owed a debt, to either her guardian or grandmother, it was everything.
And as she stood before the closed wooden door of the church she chose not to focus on the fact she hadn’t called Célia to tell her of the wedding, nor that her closest friend wasn’t even there. Ella felt strongly that Célia wouldn’t have understood, hadn’t even when she’d tried before to tell her how much Roman meant to her. Instead, Ella chose to defiantly remain in this little bubble world that she had created for herself and Roman.
Her pulse picked up as she cast one final glance in the floor-length mirror discreetly tucked away behind a pillar. She ran a hand down the smooth oyster-coloured silk dress that fitted her perfectly, simple but delicate silver and pearl beading detailing the plunging neckline between her small breasts and the fabric sweeping over slightly flared hips down to her ankles.
Ella hadn’t noticed the split in the skirts until she’d first tried it on and walked towards the reflection in the mirror of her grandmother’s cottage. Never before had she worn such a thing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow a fairy godmother was looking over her. But it wasn’t a character from some long-ago-written fairy tale but her mother who had kept the beautiful gown for her daughter to wear one day. And Ella believed it was yet another sign as she stood in her mother’s wedding dress, about to marry the man of her dreams.
* * *
Everything was proceeding as planned. Better than Roman could have ever hoped, in fact. In the last month he had played his part well. And if somewhere deep within his soul his conscience thrashed, he ruthlessly thrust it aside, focusing instead on the end goal.
But strangely, as he stood at the top of the aisle of the small church with domed ceilings and faded frescos, as he smiled at Claudette, who already had a handkerchief pressed to the corners of her eyes, in the pews with only two others—neighbours who had known Ella since she was a child—acting as witnesses, he felt unease stirring in his chest.
Roman had no intention of making this marriage real. He was a monster, but not so much of one that he would take her innocence. He was sure that Vladimir would agree to his demands and the marriage would be annulled almost as quickly as it would take for Ella to say, I do. But, in spite of that mental assurance to himself, the small ceremony felt...more real than anything had for a long time.
A small whine from the floor drew his attention to Dorcas. The priest had been a little dubious about the prospect of having an animal in attendance, but Ella had insisted. Roman was half convinced that she loved the dog as much as she appeared to have fallen in love with her fiancé. Thinking of himself in the third person in relation to Ella had been almost the only way to isolate himself from her effect.
It had been Ella’s fiancé who had whisked her away to Paris. Ella’s fiancé who had listened to her hopes and dreams and Ella’s fiancé who had believed very strongly in the sanctity of marriage. For if it had been Roman himself, he would have devoured her completely on that very first day and ruined the only bargaining chip he had with Vladimir.
Roman had always marvelled at the value placed on a woman’s innocence. Yet in the month that he had worked hard to preserve Ella’s, for her own sake as much as his, he had begun to understand the fascination and had happily consigned his frustrated desire for her as the price he had to pay for his vengeance.
Dorcas whined again from where she sat by his feet, and stared up at him as if questioning whether he knew what he was doing. He frowned at the dog, a dominant warning growl threatening to rumble in his throat, and finally she turned her attention back to the church door as if knowing Ella stood on the other side.
And Roman couldn’t help but be curious as to what those doors would reveal when they parted, excusing the sense of all-consuming anticipation as mild interest rather than the raging beast of desire. He had offered to arrange for her to go to Paris in search of a wedding dress, but she had smiled and simply stated that she had it ‘covered’.
Simple. On the surface that was what Ella seemed to be, but over the last few weeks he had realised that she was nothing of the sort. In an odd way, getting to know her had been like watching someone grow into themselves. Evolve, develop, try and test things out, ideas and hopes and dreams. All the things he had never been able to do himself, after being thrust into adulthood at the age of thirteen when his mother had died. The hardships and devastation of the following years as he had been moved from foster home to foster home, working any part-time job he could, saving every single penny for the university education he knew he would need if he was ever to get himself to a rich enough position to be able to get his revenge. Determination as much as a shockingly intense intellect had been all he’d needed to succeed.
That and an almost preternatural ability to identify what it was that a person most wanted in this world.
At school, his stature and intellect had seemed to entice weak-minded bullies who sought to either befriend or remove a possible threat to their power. But Roman had never entertained t
heir games, nor had he existed within any specific circle—instead staying on the fringes, a lone wolf, ready and able to befriend or berate as suited his own personal needs. For he had learned at a young age that true power was about dependence and manipulation. Getting someone to willingly hand over what it was he wanted was far more valuable than coercion.
And as he grew older, through university and the following years building up a personal empire that made him one of the richest men in the western hemisphere, he had used that skill very well indeed. He had amassed a vast property empire, including a number of highly sought after and deeply exclusive nightclubs, but his true skill lay in brokering hugely successful business deals for others...at an eye-wateringly high price of course. His telephone contact list boasted several royals and world leaders on speed dial, more than a few oligarchs, and one or two more nefarious characters.
But, in spite of this, his one goal was Kolikov Holdings. It was his mother’s birthright, had her own father not cast her aside the moment she had failed to give in to his wishes and marry Nathaniel Riding. Instead, she had fallen in love with a weak-minded carpenter who had been bought off by Vladimir the moment he had discovered Tatiana’s unmarried pregnancy. As she had refused to give in to her father’s demands and terminate her child, Vladimir had severed all ties to his daughter and grandchild, emotional and financial. And Roman would make sure that he would pay for his actions.
The way he had felt when he had first realised that Ella had replaced his mother’s position had been as if his heart were gripped in a steel vice. In fact, it had been as the door had slammed on his face when he had begged and pleaded with Vladimir to provide the necessary finances to fund his mother’s treatment that he had first laid eyes on her. A little blonde girl of five years, hair curling around chubby cheeks and little fists grabbing for toys, the like of which Roman had never seen before in his life. He had ducked behind the bushes that lined his grandfather’s estate in Moscow and watched in rage as this little girl played happily with all the things that he and his mother had been denied. It had not taken much investigation to discover the story of the daughter who had been presented to Vladimir as his ward, nor had it taken long to realise that she was presently enjoying a life that should have been his mother’s.
And while he acknowledged that he could not place the blame for this at her feet, over the next few years he realised that Ella had become the apple of his grandfather’s eye. The one and only object of sentiment the old man seemed to possess, aside from his precious Kolikov Holdings. And while the bastard had shored up any and all attempts to breach the impenetrable walls around his company, Roman had marvelled at how the man had somehow managed to leave his ward so utterly vulnerable in this world.
Vladimir had seemed to delight in showing off the exquisitely beautiful trophy child at the Russian Debutante ball in London, or presenting her at some high-profile gala across the globe, and every picture, every newspaper article only twisted the knife deeper and confirmed his conviction that she was the only way to truly get what he wanted: Vladimir to hand over control of the company that should be Roman’s by right. Vladimir to pass ownership to the man he’d called a worthless bastard, good for nothing more than begging for scraps from a man who would rather cut his own nose off than acknowledge Roman’s legitimacy. And once Roman had control of that company he would tear it apart piece by piece right in front of Kolikov.
The creak of the large wooden door at the bottom of the church drew Roman’s thoughts back to the present. There she was. The key to his revenge. He was sure that it was that knowledge that made his heart leap in his chest—not the stunning sight of the lamb about to be sacrificed on the altar of his revenge.
Ella was dressed in an oyster silk dress, simple lines clinging to a figure most women would have paid thousands of euros to achieve. The low V of the dress moulded to Ella’s perfect frame and his heart beat a powerful tattoo that he was too stunned to fight. Something primal roared within him. Need and want a heady combination that burned through his veins and his soul. But he’d sold his soul long ago and couldn’t turn back now—no matter how much he might want to.
He felt his pupils widen as if trying to take as much in of the image of Ella before him. As if trying desperately to consume every single detail of this moment. And, for some inexplicable reason, he felt as if it would be his last. Because after this moment, after they said I do, it would all change. Because the moment she discovered the truth she would hate him with every fibre of her being, and he would deserve it.
In some twisted way, his inner voice lashed at those thoughts in self-defence.
Better she finds out now what Vladimir is like. What I am like. Because her innocence, her naivety, won’t get her far in this life.
Just like it hadn’t for him or his mother.
But as the words of the priest washed over him, joining them as husband and wife, as the music played to signal the end of the service and he was directed to kiss his bride, Roman lost all thought of revenge, of the separate person who had married Ella Riding, of his promise to leave her untouched. Instead he focused on the soft lips parting beneath his—the gentle, sweet sweep of Ella’s tongue as she opened for him, as she enticed him further into her depths. He lost his head and drew her to him, heedless of the gentle laughter of the few others in the small church, and wished that it could be different.
Reluctantly he pulled back, because it wasn’t different, and he wasn’t. The only gift he could give her on her wedding day would be to leave her unsullied by his touch. Even if it nearly killed him.
CHAPTER THREE
She had stalked his woods and haunted his dreams. She had strayed from the path...and now she was his, to do with as he wished.
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
MARRIED. SHE WAS MARRIED. Ella pressed her fingers to her lips, still thrumming from the kiss that had sealed her fate. There had been kisses between them before—of course there had—but nothing compared to the searing passion she’d felt almost consuming her the moment he’d claimed her before the priest and God. Ever since, her body had been in a constant state of awareness, soaring between hot and cold, both of which produced goose bumps across her skin, prickles of need and want. Heat coiled low within her and nothing would satiate it. Certainly not the hooded glances she felt from Roman when he thought she was not looking.
Barely two hours ago, she had bid her grandmother adieu and been whisked away in Roman’s private jet and now they were en route to Belarus. It seemed impossible to her that she had taken the reverse of this same journey only five weeks ago. Then she had been filled with fear for her grandmother, feeling impossibly lonely and helpless. Yet now her grandmother was safe and happy, and she was about to embark on a new life with a man who filled her days with joy and made her feel...strong? Capable? Even as she thought it, she shushed a very Célia-sounding voice chiding that she shouldn’t need a man to make her feel those things.
‘Can I get you anything?’ asked the perfectly presented male attendant.
She smiled and shook her head, half fearful that she would blurt out that she needed no more than what she now had in her life. All that was left to do before she could truly begin was for Roman to meet Vladimir, and then... She frowned. They hadn’t actually discussed where they would go after that meeting. She’d been so focused on actually getting to the wedding, thoughts and discussions of what would happen next had seemed almost impossible.
Now, sitting on the plane, she realised it was almost silly not to know where she was going. And it both excited her and made her a little uncomfortable. She had placed all of her trust in Roman. He would look after her, she knew it. But as she cast a glance at her husband, who had spent a large portion of the flight so far consumed by whatever he was reading on his tablet, that unease began to grow.
He was unusually quiet, and Dorcas seemed to pick up on this
too as she padded between them, back and forth across the aisle of the small cabin. Dorcas hmphed down into a shape the size of a giant boulder at her feet and Ella didn’t have the heart to be worried about her dress. The warmth and physical contact was a balm to her heightened senses.
She caressed the wiry tendrils beneath Dorcas’s jaw and large yellow eyes stared up at her as if in concern. Strangely, she found herself reassuring the animal as much as herself with gently whispered words so as not to disturb Roman’s concentration.
‘Is everything okay?’ she finally ventured after another half an hour of silence.
‘Da.’
It was strange hearing Roman speak Russian. Even though Ella was fluent, they had always reverted to English. But from the moment they’d stepped onto the plane, all of Roman’s directions to the pilot and the staff had been in Russian, even the few sentences he had shared with her. As if he had forgotten the way things had been between them for the last month.
‘Are you nervous?’ she asked, hoping that might be the reason for the strange mood that had descended over her husband.
At this, he finally put aside his phone and looked at her with some confusion. ‘Why would I be nervous?’
‘About meeting my guardian. I know your businesses are in a different area, but Kolikov is a fairly well-known name and I’m aware that he has...a reputation.’
Roman smiled—a smile that Ella had not seen from him before. Predatory. The word ran through her mind before she could stop it.
‘No. In fact, I am relishing it.’
His response did nothing to appease the concern rising within her breast and suddenly she longed to call Célia. To tell her about her marriage, to hear words of reassurance that Ella couldn’t be sure would be forthcoming. Her mind became unaccountably blank, as if choosing to think of nothing rather than the fears that were brewing.
