Page 67 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“I never claimed to love you.”
The blunt honesty stings more than it should. I knew that—have known from the beginning that this marriage is strategy and revenge and possession, nothing softer.
Hearing it stated so plainly still hurts.
“Then what is this?” I demand. “If it’s not love, if it’s just ownership, then what am I to you?”
Dimitri crosses the space between us slowly, predatory grace in every movement. I hold my ground, even though everything in me screams to retreat.
“You’re the woman who tried to destroy me and I still couldn’t let go. You’re the challenge I can’t resist, the weakness I refuse to eliminate, the one thing I want more than I want control.” He stops inches away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. “You’re my wife. My problem. My obsession. Yes, my possession. Whether you like it or not.”
“Disgusting.”
I want to pull away. Want to slap his hand aside and storm off to the guest room I haven’t used in days.
Instead, I stand there, caught between fury and want and the terrible recognition that part of me likes being claimed this way. Likes the possessive violence, the certainty, the absolute focus of his attention.
I’m so broken.
“I need space,” I say finally. “Tonight. I need to be alone.”
Something flickers across his expression. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding.
“Fine. The guest room is still yours if you want it.” He steps back, releasing me. “But, Janice? This conversation isn’t over. Tomorrow, we’re discussing boundaries. Real ones. Not the ones you think you deserve, but the ones you’ll actually get.”
The threat is clear. Tomorrow, he’ll outline exactly how constrained my life is about to become.
Tomorrow, I’ll understand the full scope of this cage.
I retreat to the guest suite without another word, closing the door and locking it even though I know it’s pointless. Dimitrihas keys to everything. The lock is an illusion, just like my freedom, just like everything about this marriage.
***
I strip out of the beautiful dress that feels tainted now, remembering how his eyes had heated when he first saw me in it. How I’d felt powerful, desired, wanted.
Before he reminded me that want comes with a price I didn’t agree to pay.
I’m pulling on my pajamas—expensive silk, because everything in this penthouse is expensive—when I notice my purse on the dresser. I don’t remember bringing it in here, but the events of the evening are a blur of fury and humiliation.
When I open it up, I see the usual: my keys, a little makeup bag, and a mirror. Except there’s something else.
A cell phone.
The phone is small, basic, the kind you can buy at any convenience store with cash. It sits on top of my wallet, impossible to miss, clearly placed there deliberately.
My heart rate spikes.
I didn’t put this here.
Someone else did. Someone who had access to my purse tonight, at the event, while I was distracted by Elena’s barbs and Dimitri’s possessive violence.
There’s a folded note underneath.
I unfold it with shaking hands.
You’re in a position to help us. We can help you. If you want freedom from the man who caged you, text this number. We have information that could destroy him. All we need is someone inside. Someone he trusts.
Think about it, but don’t think too long.
