by Nicole Fox
The soldier steps forward and brushes his shirt aside to reveal a gun strapped to his hip. His mouth curls up into a half-smile that sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ve been ordered to persuade you if necessary.”
I consider my options for a moment, staring at the man to show him I won’t tremble in his presence. But in the end, I turn back to the box and begin sorting through the contents. Turns out, Luka and his family are onto something. Fear is a fantastic motivator.
Two hours into planning the wedding from hell, I found a second note wedged between the pages of the magazine.
Ceremony to be held on mansion lawn for security reasons. Make it look nice.
When I found it, I groaned and immediately called back the venue I’d already scheduled to cancel and then called the caterer and photographer to update them on the location change. Luka’s name made sure no one complained about the short notice—the wedding is only five days away—even though I could tell they were less than thrilled. But compared to my level of excitement, they were practically jumping for joy.
The dress was the easy part. I called a discount dress shop not listed in the businesses in the binder Luka provided and asked them for a dress with poofy sleeves and preferably a matching lace headband. The woman asked several times if I was certain that is what I wanted, and I insisted. Then, I had her send it to the tailor my family has used for years. I know it is petty, but looking ridiculous on our wedding is the only part of the ceremony I can control. Every time Luka looks at me, I want him to remember that it isn’t real. That I don’t love him.
When I finally hang up the phone, I’m exhausted and weak from hunger. I haven’t eaten anything since I had half of a bagel for breakfast. And despite the soldier’s determination to prove that he can stand silently in the corner of a room longer than any other human in existence, I know he has to be hungry, too. He’s a trained soldier, not an actual robot.
“Can I please make us some food?” I ask, deciding it is best practice to be honest and sincere. “I’m starving, and I can’t think when I’m hungry.”
He gnaws on his lip, and I know he is considering it. “You know, poofy sleeves are out of style now.”
I snap my attention to him. “How would you know?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been to weddings. If you want to be in style, you should wear something sleeveless. And tight.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Hearing the man who threatened me with a gun to plan my own wedding discuss dress styles is almost ridiculous enough that I laugh, but that would require energy, which I do not have.
“I saw fresh produce on the counter, and I’m guessing there are basics in the pantry. I can make a quick stirfry. Maybe even season and grill some chicken.” My mouth starts to salivate at the thought of food. “I make a great blackened chicken with avocado cream sauce.”
“You have a lot left to do.” The soldier clenches his jaw and then lets out a sharp sigh. “Make it simple and make it fast.”
He steps aside from the door, offering me a pathway out, and I don’t hesitate to take it. I toss the binder aside, shove away from the table, and hustle through the door. The kitchen is even more beautiful than I remember it, and I spent a quick ten seconds running my hand across the shiny steel oven knobs before I start gathering my supplies.
The binder to the right of the fridge is actually a walk-in pantry that wraps around the back of the fridge like a food version of Narnia. There is a well-stocked spice rack, baskets of fresh produce, and a basic spread of flour, baking powders, and sugars. For a moment, I forget about Luka Volkov and his family’s brutality. I forget about the circumstances that brought me to this mansion and this kitchen, and I simply focus on the fact that this is mine. If things get truly bad with Luka, I would even consider sleeping in here. It is the closest thing to a real life “happy place” I’ve ever had.
“Hurry up in there,” the soldier barks from the kitchen, making me jump.
I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and begin gathering supplies. I take half of the spice rack—paprika, onion powder, garlic powder, thyme, oregano, black peppercorns—and dump it on the kitchen island. Then, I go back in for lemons, avocadoes, fresh garlic, and a bag of long-grain white rice. The refrigerator is just as well-stocked as the pantry, and I find chicken breasts thawed out on the bottom shelf.
I rinse the rice, and while it cooks in a pot on the stove, I heat a stainless-steel pan, slice the chicken breasts in half, and season them with the homemade blackened seasoning. The soldier moves closer and closer to the island as I work. At first, I think it is because he is worried about me with a knife, but when I look up, I see that his tongue is nearly dangling out of his mouth. He is starving.
Then, a bang comes from the front of the house, and the soldier stands to attention and glares at me like I purposefully hypnotized him. Heavy footsteps pound across the marble entryway, and the soldier scrambles back to stand with his back against the wall. I can see the fear in his wide eyes, and I know Luka is home. However, seconds before Luka’s frame fills the doorway, the soldier sets his face to neutral and stares straight ahead.
I’m not sure why, but this makes me like the soldier more. He seems more human to me than before. But I can’t sit with that feeling long because Luka stomps into the kitchen, sees me at the kitchen island, and quickly pivots until he is looming over me like a raincloud.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice is a deep bass that rumbles through my bones, but I do my best to continue working as though he doesn’t bother me.
“Cooking,” I say, gesturing to the food. “Do you want anything?”
I hate how domestic I sound, but apparently, years of my father drilling into me that a woman’s duty is to feed her family did the trick. It is all I can think to say.
“You are supposed to be planning our wedding,” he growls.
I don’t look up at him. I can’t. Not if I want to look unaffected. Unlike the soldier standing in the corner, I haven’t perfected my neutral mask. If I look at Luka, he’ll see the fear blooming inside of me, and he will enjoy it. I don’t want to give him that pleasure.
“I found a caterer and a photographer,” I say, trying to keep my hands from trembling as I slice open one avocado and then another, digging the knife into the pits and twisting them out. “And a designer I’ve worked with in the past is altering a dress off the rack for me.”
He moves even closer so his hip is whispering against my elbow as I work. “That’s all?”
“Most brides have months to plan a wedding,” I say.
I can practically feel the heat wafting off of him as he turns to the soldier in the corner. “Get out.”
The soldier turns and leaves at once, and despite the fact that he and I had not exactly become friends over the last several hours we’d spent together, I still find myself wishing he would stay. I don’t want to be alone with Luka. Though, I suppose I better get used to it. If we get married, I’ll be alone with him a lot.
As soon as the soldier disappears down the hallway, Luka leans down until his lips are only a few inches from my ear. His hot breath sends a shiver down my spine. “I’m the reason you’re not dead right now, so I’d suggest you speak to me with respect.”
Steeling myself, I turn to face him. His eyes are trained on me. Green eyes the color of clover and spring grass. They are too beautiful for such a horrible man. “There is a difference between disrespect and speaking the truth. Why are you in such a rush to get married?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“It certainly feels like my concern,” I retort. “Plus, I’m not in the habit of taking orders for the sake of taking orders. I’m not one of your soldiers.”
His massive hand is around my wrist before I can even blink, and I gasp. He isn’t gripping me hard or hurting me, but I know without trying that I won’t be able to pull my hand free. It is yet another reminder of how powerless I am against Luka. Of how easily he can overpower me. His hand slides d
own my hand, squeezing and forcing me to drop the knife I’d been holding.
His beard is pitch black and meticulously groomed and it shifts as he works his jaw, either in anger or frustration—probably both. “Because you belong to me,” he says simply. “And the sooner your father and the Furinos understand there is nothing they can do to change that, the better off we’ll be.”
“‘We’?” I ask, eyebrow raised. “Or you?”
His other hand flexes like he is itching to lift it and strike me, but then, he drops my hand and steps away. Without a word, he leaves the kitchen and walks into the meeting room, closing the door behind him.
My heart is racing from our close contact and his intensity. I’ve never been around someone like Luka before. I’ve known plenty of violent, cruel men in my life, but never anyone who could unsettle me to my very core with one look. Who could send shivers down my spine with a single breath. Being near him is like sharing a cage with a wild animal. I’m completely at his mercy. I can talk all I want, but at the end of the day, he is the one with the teeth and claws and brute strength. He is the one who can destroy me.
I turn back to the food – anything to distract me from the unease sinking in my skin. I cover the rice and remove it from the heat to let it steam and then find a top of the line food processor in a cabinet under the island. I drop in the avocado, garlic, and the juice of one lemon and turn it on. While it runs, I drop the seasoned chicken into the heated pan, and the familiar sizzle of the meat sets my frayed nerves at ease. Over the next ten minutes, I finish blending the avocado sauce and add salt and pepper to taste, flip the chicken to sear the other with a perfect golden crust, and fluff the rice with a fork and season it.
I find plates in an overhead cabinet, but they are too high for me to reach without a step stool, so I crawl up onto the counter and stand on my knees to reach them. I’m tempted to only grab one plate and feed myself, but I don’t want to give Luka any more of a reason to despise me, so I grab two.
The pan is still sizzling, so I don’t hear Luka come back into the kitchen or walk up behind me. I don’t know he is only a foot away from me until I crawl down from the counter with the two plates in my hand and feel his body against my back side. I yelp and jump, the plates clattering together in my hand. I nearly drop them, but before I can, Luka’s hand snakes around and steadies the plates.
He takes the dishes from my hand and sets them on the counter, and I press a hand to my heart and let out a shaky breath. “I could have fallen backwards and died. You should warn people before you sneak up behind them.”
“And you shouldn’t make yourself so at home in other people’s houses.” There is a sick kind of amusement in his voice. He is pleased with himself for startling me, and if I didn’t think he’d hit me right back, I’d slap him.
I turn to face him, our bodies separated by no more than a few inches, and stand tall, shoulders back. “What’s mine is yours, right?”
His eyes narrow. “Not for five more days. And thanks to me, the wedding will go on as scheduled. I just ordered a cake, asked my tailor to get a tuxedo ready for me, and hired a designer to do your dress. No wife of mine will wear something off the rack.”
Every word is an insult. See how much better I am at this than you? See how ineffective you are? Even still, I can’t help but be impressed. He was gone for ten minutes and did more than I could in two hours. It is just another testament to how much power he has. To how many people will bend at a single command from his lips. I refuse to be one of those people.
“How joyous,” I say, voice sticky with sarcasm.
Luka looks down his nose at me, his wide mouth pressed into a sultry line, and reaches into his back pocket. When he opens his palm between us, there is a thin gold bracelet sitting there. It is delicate and beautiful, and I furrow my brow, trying to understand why he would give me jewelry.
Taking advantage of my confusion, Luka grabs my wrist and locks the bracelet into place. It fits perfectly around my wrist, two gold plates at the back sliding into one another like no other jewelry fastener I’ve ever seen.
“Don’t try to take it off,” he says. “You won’t be able to. This will let me know where you are at all times. If you try to leave this house without my permission, I will know.”
I stare down at the bracelet as if it is a snake wrapped around my arm, constricting my blood flow. It is a delicate, beautiful chain. A symbol of my enslavement. I run my finger across it and can almost feel it singe my skin.
“I thought love was all about trust,” I say, my lip pulled back in a sneer.
His mouth curves into a smile, and despite everything I know about Luka, despite my hatred for him and everything he has done, my heart stutters. He is beautiful. His finger curls under my chin for just a moment before I can wrench my face out of his reach.
Luka laughs as he turns away. “Good thing we aren’t in love.”
10
Eve
Luka doesn’t let me finish cooking dinner or even turn off the stove. He grabs my arm and pulls me out of the kitchen, my heels digging into the floor the entire way. When we reach the stairs, he wraps an arm around my waist and picks me up.
“Put me down,” I scream, my voice echoing off the marble floors and high ceiling. I know there are other soldiers and guards lurking around the house, but none of them respond to the sound of my distress.
“If you don’t stop kicking,” Luka grunts—the only sign my struggle is having any effect on him – “we will both fall down the stairs.”
I dig my fingers into his muscly shoulder, amazed by how thick and solid he is. “That is a risk I’m willing to take.”
Luka sets me down momentarily on the stairs, pins my arms to my side, and then picks me up again, carrying me like I’m a rolled-up carpet. “Well, I’m not. I haven’t survived ambushes and gun fights to be ended by a stubborn woman on a set of stairs.”
I want to kick him in the knees and push him backwards, but when I look over his shoulder, I realize how far from the ground we are. It wouldn’t be a simple tumble down the stairs. There would be broken bones and blood. So, I grit my teeth and let him climb the rest of the stairs, but as soon as we reach the top landing, I fight like a cat caught in a burlap bag. Finally, Luka lets me go.
“Your room is this way,” he says, nodding his head down the hallway to the right.
Your room. A dread I didn’t realizing I was carrying lifts off my shoulders. “I have my own room?”
Luka points down the hallway impatiently. “I’m not going to give you the chance to stab me in my sleep.”
The hallway upstairs is in the same modern style as the rest of the house. Everything white, shiny, and smooth. It is more like a museum than a house. I’m grudgingly admiring the décor when suddenly, Luka grabs my arm and pulls me backwards. I yelp and struggle against his grip, and Luka lets go just as quickly. He tips his head towards a solid wooden door to our left. “Your room.”
I turn the handle, step inside, and try to shut the door behind me, but Luka’s booted foot wedges between the door and the frame. Even with my entire body pressing against the door, he opens it with what appears to be very little effort.
“I thought this was my room.” I cross my arms, feeling like a petulant teenager.
Luka ignores me and walks into the room. “Bed, desk, and a brand-new wardrobe. We can send for more of your personal things after the wedding.”
I follow his eyes to the wooden armoire in the corner and walk over and pull the doors open. I’m met with a wall of black and red and lace. It looks like I’ve stumbled into the closet of a desperate housewife. My dresser at home is full of jeans, t-shirts, and ratty sweatpants. Searching for anything that I would even remotely consider wearing, I open one of the drawers in the bottom of the armoire and blush a deep red the same color as the thongs and matching bras in the drawer.
“I’m not wearing this.” I slam the drawer shut and tighten my arms around myself. “I’m not wearing s
omeone else’s lingerie.”
“They are brand new.”
I furrow my brow. “How? I just agreed to your offer a few hours ago.”
His eyes slide down my body slowly, sending a new kind of shiver down my back. I’m used to Luka’s glares. To his vitriol and disgust. But this look is different. It is wanting. I want to climb into the armoire and close myself inside.
“I expected you’d come around,” he says, looking me over once more before his gaze turns disinterested and shifts to the door. “Everything should be in your size.”
“It might be my size, but it isn’t for me.” I reach in and pull out the first garment I find, holding it up in front of myself. It is a black dress the size of a dinner napkin with a neckline so low it might show off my belly button. “I would never wear this.”
Luka snatches the dress out of my hand and brushes past me, sliding the clothes one by one to the right before settling on a pale pink lace dress. He turns and holds it out to me. It is short and tight, but the neck is high and it has sleeves. It isn’t terrible. When I grab it out of his hands, however, I realize the back is basically nonexistent. It plunges all the way down to my butt. I wouldn’t be able to wear a bra or, most likely, underwear with it.
“I’m not your doll,” I say, holding the dress out for him to take back. “You don’t get to dress me up and order me around.”
Luka turns away, grabs a pair of brown heels from the shoe rack on the bottom of the armoire, and drops them on the floor at my feet. “I get to do whatever I’d like with you.”
We stare at one another, the full meaning of his words sinking in. It feels like my entire body is blushing when I lift my chin and shake my head. “No, you don’t.”
I let the dress fall on the floor, and I swear, before it even touches the ground Luka is in front of me. In an instant, I’m pressed against the armoire, his body flush against my front. He is towering over me, breathing heavily, his green eyes wild with fury.
