Page 36 of Lord of Passion

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Iisus Khristos -Jesus Christ in Russian

Svoloch'- bastard in Russian

moy syn- my son in Russian

Pozdravlyayu –congratulations in Russian

Chapter Sixteen

In which we hear the worst proposal in history. Nikandr is not a romantic.

Caroline…

Nikandr sits there in his expensively tailored suit, his hair is perfect, and his smile is dark. Just lounging, like a Dark Lord from Hell, waiting to drag me kicking and screaming down to the underworld.

"You must be joking," I say crispy, trying to stifle that agitated little voice. The one that's telling me thatI am so fucked.

"Sadly not," he says, his words just as sharp and precise. "Believe me, it wouldn't be my wish. It is unfortunate that you happened to be there in the lobby when I was taken by Agapov's men. Regardless, this is where we are. A registrar from theZapis Aktov Grazhdanskogo Sostoyaniyaoffice will be here in an hour. We will say the vows. They will be backdated to forty-eight ago. He will file them.

"Given Russian bureaucracy, no one would have expected a marriage certificate to show up for a few more days. We will appear to be married-"

"Appear?"I ask suspiciously.

"For the duration of this misunderstanding," he says patiently, "we are married legally,muzh i zhena,husband and wife. We livetogether. You will wear a ring. Once this confusion has passed, and everyone has moved on to an exciting new scandal, we will quietly have an annulment."

I'm watching him carefully. He's speaking very straightforwardly, his gaze intent on mine, but there's something that feels off. I'm good at spotting a lie, and while there's nothing that he's sayingspecificallythat seems to be untrue, there's some piece that's not added in here that should be. But goddamnit, I don't know what itis.

"I don't have anything to wear," I admit. "Just suits. And that dress that-" The dress that he ripped off me in the elevator, I was going to say. I'm not bringingthatup. "This was supposed to be a working trip. Are there going to be pictures?"

"Of course," he says. He's watching me, waiting for something. What? That I'll melt down, screaming, throwing breakable objects at him and howling, "I'llnevermarry you!"

I'm not going to do that. Not right now, anyway.

"I've ordered dresses for you," he says. "Understated. Something that an eager bride might pull out of her suitcase on a whirlwind trip to Moscow. We'll sign our backdated paperwork, smile for a picture or two. You told Agapov that we were married here at the hotel, the pictures will make sense."

"We are doing all of this for a crazy guy who kidnapped you to talk business?" I ask. "This is an awfully long walk just to appease a few egos here."

"The Bratva has been embedded in Russia for a hundred years," he says, a wry twist to his mouth. "Crime families have been operating for dozens of centuries more. Set in their ways, filled with ceremony and expectation and above all, overweeningpride." He looks exhausted, rubbing the back of his neck and I wonder if he's gotten any sleep.

"I– I need to talk to Liria," I blurt. "She's- I have to talk to her first."

He watches me for a moment, relaxed and seated in the armchair like it's a throne. The room is still with his silence, almost oppressive. I can faintly hear the traffic from outside.

"I know you didn't ask for this," Nikandr finally says. "Believe me, it isnotwhat I desired either."

Thank you for reminding me how much you despise me, you asshole.

"But we are Bratva - including you by association - and this is where we are. Feel free to speak with Liria, just be ready by 10 am." He checks his watch, a shiny steel one, and rises. "I'll have the dresses brought up in ten minutes." And then he's gone, his head tipping slightly at the threshold like he's used to doorways meant for normal people and not for tattooed giants like him.

Liria doesn't answer.

I stare at my phone, frustrated and trying to calculate what time it is in New York. Didn't she have performances this week? She might be over one of the sisters-in-law and hasn't checked her phone. I leave a message.

Then, because I really don't know what else to do. I go in and take a shower.

There's a discreet knock on the door. "Caroline Basha, may I come in?"