Forced Marriage Vows

9. Anastasia

CHAPTER 9

Anastasia

I ’ve seen Anthony in a lot of moods—happy, sad, devastated, angry. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as furious as this. He only takes one look at me before letting out a relieved breath and running a hand through his dark hair.

“Anastasia,” he says in a chilly voice, “we’re leaving.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Ant,” Mikhail says from behind him.

My brother whirls around to face his best friend, jabbing a finger into his chest. I hurriedly rise to my feet in hopes of defusing the situation. Then I remember Mikhail deserves every single bit of Anthony’s anger, so I cross my arms over my chest to watch.

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

Mikhail lets out a breath. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Calm down, Anthony.”

“Calm down? You kidnapped my little sister!”

“The two of you really like throwing that word around, don’t you? I didn’t kidnap Anastasia. I brought her here to keep her safe.”

“Safe from who? You’re the asshole who broke into her home,” Anthony retorts. “From where I’m standing, you’re the one she needs to be protected from.”

“And what about your father?” Mikhail questions. “You don’t think I was keeping her safe from him.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “I don’t need protection from my father.”

Both of them ignore me, however. Anthony is still fuming, but he doesn’t correct Mikhail.

“You know I’m right, Ant. If I had let her be, if he had gotten to her first, you know what he could have done. There are endless possibilities, the most likely one being that he’d have given her over to the highest bidder—whoever could provide him with enough power to take back control.”

My jaw tightens. “Would you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” I snap, stepping toward the two men. Mikhail looks over, icy blue eyes meeting mine. “And stop talking about my father like that. He’s not like you. He would never do that to me,” I add assuredly.

“There’s that naivety again, solnyshko ,” Mikhail murmurs.

Anthony glances between us, narrowing his eyes.

“Fuck your plans and fuck Igor’s plans. All that matters to me right now is that I’m taking my little sister and getting her out of this city. If the rest of you want to go to hell, that’s fine by me.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Mikhail says, his stance making it clear he means business.

“I swear to God, Mikhail?—”

“No. I don’t give a fuck what you’re thinking right now. She’ll be better protected with me.”

“I’d be more inclined to believe that if you weren’t acting out of your own self-interest. You don’t just want to protect her, you want to force her into a marriage. How the fuck is that okay?”

“Better me than a man she doesn’t know,” Mikhail replies.

“She doesn’t know who the fuck you are either, asshat. And I’m not going to let you do this to her.” Anthony’s jaw clenches. “She’s leaving with me.”

“No. She’s not.”

Both men fall silent and the tension in the room increases. I’m standing between them, feeling suffocated as they glare at each other.

“You’re better than this, Mikhail.”

“We both know I’m really not,” he returns. “So what’s your master plan, Ant? You didn’t come here without one, did you? Exactly how do you plan to get your sister out of my clutches.”

I see Anthony’s fists clench a moment before he reaches behind him and pulls out a gun. A strangled gasp escapes me at the sight.

“What the fuck, Ant?” I breathe.

“Get behind me, Anastasia,” my brother orders.

“No. Put the gun away. This isn’t you!”

Mikhail, for his part, looks completely unbothered by the sight of the gun in my brother’s hand.

“Relax, sweetheart. He’s not going to use it. I doubt he even knows how,” he says to me.

Anthony arches an eyebrow, his gaze a challenge. Then he’s pulling the trigger, carefully aimed at Mikhail’s face. I scream just as the gun goes off, narrowly missing Mikhail by a couple of inches. The bullet whizzes past him, embedding itself into the wall.

“Wanna say that again?” Anthony questions.

This is wrong. So, so wrong. My brother isn’t like this—he hates violence of any kind. He left the Bratva because he refused to be responsible for taking a human life. That man wouldn’t be standing in front of his best friend holding a gun to his face.

“You got lessons,” Mikhail says, amused.

There’s not a hint of genuine fear in his voice—he could be talking about why the sky is blue for all the lack of actual concern on his face. The man is definitely a sociopath.

“Don’t fucking test me right now, Mikhail. Let my sister go.”

“As I keep trying to tell you, that’s not going to happen. Now, enough with the dramatics. Put the gun away and we can discuss this like grown people.”

His tone only serves to make Anthony even angrier. When I notice his finger easing toward the trigger once again, I move forward, standing in front of the gun. Slowly, I bring my hand up to his.

“He’s right, Ant,” I say softly. “You don’t need to do this.”

Eventually, I’m able to get him to lower the gun. His eyes meet mine and he huffs out a short breath before placing it behind his shirt. Once the gun is out of sight, I sigh with relief.

“That was not cool, big brother,” I tell him. “You can’t do that again.”

“No promises.”

Together, we both turn to Mikhail. He arches an eyebrow.

“What?”

“We need to come to a compromise,” I state. “You have two Vasilievs right here. Surely there’s something we can do to get you the legitimacy you so desperately need.”

He tilts his head to the side, like he’s considering my statement. Then he shrugs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not sure when I gave you the impression that this was a negotiation. But it’s not. You’re marrying me, end of story.”

“You motherfucker,” Anthony bellows.

He rushes past me and, before I can blink, flings his fist toward Mikhail’s face. The punch doesn’t land, however. Mikhail somehow manages to stop his fist before it can connect with his face.

“Nice try.” He smirks.

But Anthony must have been expecting that because he swings his other fist, and this one manages to find its mark. Mikhail stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

“That wasn’t very nice, Ant,” he murmurs.

Rage flickers in his expression but it disappears just as fast. I get in between the two men before any other punches can be thrown, placing a hand on my brother’s chest.

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” I ask him, confused.

My brother has never been the man throwing the punches. The one making everyone laugh, sure. But violence has never been in his nature.

Mikhail’s the one who replies. “Because he knows there’s nothing he can do to change my mind.”

And when I look into my brother’s eyes, I see the truth there bright as day. I swallow softly as the inevitably of my situation starts to dawn on me.

Later that night, I’m in the kitchen stirring some sugar and eggs in a bowl. Mikhail steps inside, pausing when he notices me in the dim light.

“What are you doing?”

“Baking,” I reply simply, dropping the mixture to measure some flour. “I borrowed your SpongeBob apron,” I inform him as an afterthought, gesturing at the material tied around my waist.

“I can see that,” he says slowly, his eyes trailing over my face, which I’m sure has some flour on it by now. “Exactly why are you baking at almost midnight?”

Anthony went to bed an hour ago after we had a long conversation. He spent most of it blaming himself for everything that was going wrong. In his mind, none of this would have happened if he had just stayed and taken over from our father. I assured him that wasn’t true.

He’s going to be staying here with us, partly because he flew here from L.A. without making any arrangements for a place to stay. And also because, in his words, his best friend has gone “batshit crazy” and he doesn’t trust me alone with him.

By the time he went to bed, he was sounding more like himself, which I was glad for. Whatever happens, I never want to see my brother like that again.

“I’m a stress baker. I bake when I’m stressed out,” I explain to Mikhail on a huff.

I’d been lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, when I got the urge to get up and bake something. I was surprised when his pantry provided me with everything that I needed.

“Hmm,” he says gently, leaning against the counter as he watches me. “Need any help?”

I consider telling him to fuck off. Then I decide I simply don’t have the energy and this is really a two-person job, if I’m being honest.

“Sure, if you could just grab that pan over there and maybe smack yourself with it while you’re at it?”

He stares at me, unamused.

“No? Alright then, just grease the pan for the cake batter.”

Mikhail blinks slowly. “You woke up at eleven p.m. to bake a cake,” he says to himself in disbelief.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from stepping forward and doing as I asked. I don’t hate him any less, but it’s kind of nice, working with him. He doesn’t say a word and he listens when I correct him throughout the entire process. Soon enough, we have the cake in the oven and the counters cleaned and cleared of any evidence of our baking.

He raises his hand for a high five once we’re done. I ignore it with an eye roll, pausing when my gaze comes to rest on the spot at the side of his face. The one where a small reddish bruise is starting to form. With a soft sigh, I head for one of the cabinets I opened earlier, which has a first-aid box.

He arches an eyebrow when I pull it out, setting it on the counter. I hoist myself up before looking at him.

“I’m only helping you out with the bruise because you helped me with the baking,” I state, gesturing for him to step forward.

He does, settling in between my knees that widen on their own to accommodate him. I suddenly realize this was a very bad idea. My legs burn where they touch him, and Mikhail smiles like he can tell exactly how he’s affecting me.

I can smell him acutely. He smells of vanilla and men’s aftershave. For some reason, he’s radiating warmth in this moment—his eyes don’t appear as cold as they usually do.

“So,” Mikhail drawls as I dab some ointment over the bruise, “does this happen often? The baking?”

I shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s not every day I’m kidnapped by a man with psychopathic tendencies and grand delusions of marriage.”

He smirks, “Delusions? Whatever makes you sleep better, solnyshko ,” he tells me. “How about cooking? You like to cook?”

He sounds genuinely interested in getting to know me. And I wouldn’t let him, but my guard is down and I’m more at ease now that I’ve spent some time baking.

“No. I’m not the biggest fan of cooking,” I reply.

Baking is an activity I partake in when the inspiration strikes. Cooking’s something I have to do at least twice a day in order to survive. They’re not on the same level in my mind. One I enjoy, the other one is nothing more than a chore.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I can do the cooking for us both.”

My stomach flutters at the statement, and I look up at him, taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes. And then I have to look away. He angles his head lower to catch my eyes when I do.

“You really don’t want to marry me, Mikhail,” I say gently, trying to appeal to his softer side, although I doubt he has one. “I don’t have a job. I get bored easily, and I can be a little lazy. I snore sometimes and I didn’t do particularly good in school. Basically, I’m a mess. Do you really want that?”

“Of course I do,” he murmurs without hesitation. “And trust me, sweetheart, you’re not a mess. Well, not completely,” he adds with a teasing smile.

I groan softly. That is so not what I need to be hearing in this moment. Why is he saying all the right things? If this was a man I had genuine feelings for, I’d be melting. But since this is Mikhail Morozova, I manage not to. Just barely, though.

I blame his perfectly angular face for the confusing feelings going through me right now. I really should focus on the problem at hand.

“There’s really nothing I can say to convince you not to go through with this, is there?”

“Unfortunately not, solnyshko . The wedding is in a week.”

The wedding is in a week , I repeat in my mind. I suddenly feel frozen, all the calm I felt after baking evaporating in my mind.

“You’re a terrible person,” I say to Mikhail.

He smiles, and it’s a warm smile, one that somehow manages to light me up from the inside. There really is something wrong with me.

“Trust me, sweetheart. I know.”

There’s the brush of his skin against my hand but before I can look down to see what he’s doing. He’s stepping away.

“Good night, solnyshko . Enjoy the cake.”

He walks out, leaving me reeling. More than anything, I’m shocked by how much I liked talking to him. The idea that maybe he’s not as bad as I thought starts to take root in my mind.

And I really should squash it. Before my own mind gets me in even bigger trouble than I already am.