Forced Marriage Vows

14. Mikhail

CHAPTER 14

Mikhail

O rgasms are pretty nice.

They provide a certain form of clarity. You can’t know how you truly feel about someone until you’ve slept with them.

After last night with Anastasia, I’ve found some clarity of my own. Before then, I’d been thinking that this annoying feeling that plagues me was nothing more than momentary lust or a need for something I couldn’t have. I was wrong.

Now that I’ve had her, all I want is more. More of her in my bed, more of my being buried inside of her. I’m quickly coming to realize that Anastasia Vasiliev is a form of addiction—one that seems to be burrowing itself further into my skin the more I think about her.

I’ve been dealing with insomnia since I was ten years old. Ever since my mother passed away, I don’t think I’ve had more than a handful of hours of sleep at night. It’s become a burden I’ve learned to shoulder, but yesterday, I actually slept. For eight straight hours. And it was all thanks to her.

I fell asleep to her scent in my bed and the thought of her. Which is how I know this whole situation is being blown out of proportion.

Even now, there’s a smile on my face as I put my phone away after texting her. I’m acting sappy, which is unlike me. I’ve been in relationships with women in the past, but I’ve never felt the need to give them meaningful gifts like the camera I got Anastasia. But buying her a Dior bag wouldn’t have cut it. Not when I actually want her to like me.

My car rolls up in front of the building and I step through the sliding doors out of the lobby. For security purposes, I have to go everywhere with a convoy now that I’m Pakhan. I’m trying not to be as irritated with it as I usually would be.

At least one thing is still the same. When I enter the car, Jerome is in front of the wheel, wearing a basketball cap. I arch an eyebrow when he catches my eye through the rearview mirror, tipping his hat toward me.

“Hey, boss,” he greets with a goofy smile.

It’s times like this that I really question what I’m thinking, bringing him into a world like this.

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, the hat? I went to a Bulls game two days ago,” he informs me.

“Really?” I drawl, tapping my fingers on my lap.

“Yes sir. It was quite fun. You should come with me some time.”

I don’t miss the sharp look the guard in the passenger seat shoots Jerome for his suggestion. I personally find it a little funny. If anything, my new position in the Bratva has made Jerome loosen up toward me further instead of the opposite. Which is insane.

“Jerome, the day I go with you to a basketball game is the day pigs fly,” I reply with a smirk.

He blanches and meets my eye again, seeming to remember where he is and who he’s speaking to.

“Of c-ou-rse. R-right, sir,” he stammers.

He quickly takes off the hat and the car ride regresses into silence until we arrive at our destination. Once we do, he rushes out of the car to open the door for me. I step out of it, buttoning up my suit as I do so and staring up at the imposing house in front of me.

The Vasiliev mansion was practically my home when I was a teenager. Mostly because my father couldn’t have cared less if I was in my actual home or not. I spent a lot of time with Anthony here. Made a lot of fond memories.

I should have known back then that I’d return to it as the owner. The mansion doesn’t just belong to the Vasilievs, it’s the seat of power of the Pakhan. And now it’s mine.

“Also, sir, I just wanted to congratulate you on your wedding yesterday,” Jerome states, breaking into my thoughts. “It was a nice ceremony.”

Being married doesn’t feel as different as I thought it would. In the back of my mind, there’s a constant reminder that I now have a new wife and new responsibilities, but it’s not the big change I thought it was going to be. Still, I make sure to thank Jerome before steeling myself for the day ahead.

But nothing could have prepared me to see Anthony’s face as soon as I walk through the doors of the house. My best friend leans against a pillar in the foyer, his gaze immediately meeting mine as I walk in. His presence is wrong for a plethora of reasons. The first being that it’s 9 a.m. and Anthony’s never up this early.

The more important one is that he hasn’t set foot in this house since he walked out of it more than a decade earlier.

“What are you doing here, Ant?” I question, walking toward him.

He offers me a short nod in greeting. “I was told you’d be here.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I slept here, okay?” he says on a shrug. “I figured I couldn’t come back to the penthouse last night, what with it being your wedding night and all. And before you say anything, I’m aware your marriage isn’t exactly normal. But if anything did happen, I’d rather not know.”

My brows furrow. “Why didn’t you just go to a hotel?”

“I’m not a fan of hotels. They make me feel weird.”

“Alright, weirdo,” I drawl. “I suppose you’re welcome to stay here whenever you’d like. How was it being back in your old room? I know you hate this place.”

He shrugs. “I had a problem with my old man, not the house. It’s actually nice being back. Reminds me of the past.”

I see the nostalgia’s hitting him, too. Time’s wasting, though, and I can’t keep standing here and reminiscing about the past. He follows me as I check through the house, ensuring everything is in place.

“What are you up to?” Anthony questions.

“I’m making sure the house is in order for when Anastasia and I move in,” I reply distractedly.

“You’re going to live here?”

“Where else would we live?” I question, facing him.

He opens his mouth to reply, then seems to think better of it and shuts it once again.

“I’m not sure Ana’s going to like moving back here,” he tries.

I fix him with a look. “She is strong-willed but also very intelligent. As long as I can help her see the vision, I may be able to persuade her. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be married today.”

“Good point,” Anthony murmurs. “So you’ve confirmed the house is in order. Where to next?”

It’s immediately clear to me that he’s bored and in need of entertainment. Unfortunately, he will not be a fan of my next brand of fun.

“Somewhere that doesn’t concern you,” I mutter.

His eyebrows rise. “Okay, now I really want to go.”

“I’m going down to the storage facility in the back, Anthony,” I say on a sigh, figuring it’s pointless to hide the truth from him. “You know what happens down there.”

When his eyes meet mine, there’s a challenge in them I’ve seen a lot in his sister’s eyes, as well. That Vasiliev stubbornness that always gets them in a world of trouble.

I’m completely unsurprised when he says, “I still want to go.”

“Of course you do.” I sigh. “If I get even a hint of judgment, I’m kicking your ass.”

He nods once before following me and my guards out of the main house and toward one of the buildings in the back. While the building was originally designed to serve as a stable, it hasn’t been used for that purpose in a long while. Igor converted it a long time ago into a row of cells for prisoners.

And right now, it’s at maximum capacity. My expression is blank as I walk inside, ignoring the people in the various cells. In the past week, they’ve been interrogated, locked up, and are now waiting for me to decide exactly what I plan to do with them.

These people are loyal to Igor. Or at least they used to be. They won’t be leaving here until I’m sure they aren’t anymore. I only need to point at one of the cell doors before a guard rushes forward and opens it. He pulls out a woman in her mid-forties with ashy blonde hair and light blue eyes.

Lana Petrov.

She’s married to one of the high-ranking soldaty in the Bratva, one of Igor’s personal guards. He’s with Igor right now, having left her alone. Vulnerable. I assume she was meant to be a part of the escape plan as well, but my men got to her before she could run off into the sunset with her husband.

She glares at me as she’s brought forward, pride etched into her expression. She’s definitely going to be a tough nut to crack. Her expression falters a little when she recognizes the man at my side. Anthony’s quiet as he takes everything in, his expression rigid and unaffected.

I can see the wheels turning in Lana’s head, wondering why Igor’s only son is standing next to me. When she comes to a conclusion, she scowls, the lines on her face becoming harsher.

“You’re a traitor to your name, Anthony,” she spits in Russian.

Volatile. Just the way I like it.

“Take her to the room,” I order.

Anthony pretends the woman hasn’t said anything as we all move to one of the interrogation rooms. It’s filled with everything I could possibly need to make any man or woman feel more pain than they could possibly imagine. But when it comes to women, my means of torture are a little less violent. I try to avoid it if I can.

There’s a single chair in the room, and Lana sits on it. She continues to glare, not in the least bit cowed. It would be admirable if I didn’t dislike the woman even before all of this. She’s prone to sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. And for a woman who’s a wife to a mere soldat , she sure does have a high opinion of herself and her position in the Bratva.

“You won’t get what you want from me, Morozova,” she starts, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Interesting. And what is it you think I want?”

“Whatever it is, you’re not going to get it. You’re scum. You and your bastard traitor of a father. And to think Igor trusted your father once. If only he had known that would only end with him being stabbed in the back.”

“Igor’s never trusted anyone but himself,” I state. “And if you call me scum again, I’ll personally make sure you regret it. Now, we’re going to start over and you’re going to tell me exactly what it is I need to know.”

She smirks, looking not in the least bit scared. But she should be. As I expected, she faces Anthony.

“Does your mother know what’s going on? I’m sure you’ve spoken to her. Or does she not care that her husband is being hunted and her children are lying with the enemy?”

Now that’s interesting.

“My mother’s business is none of your concern, Mrs. Petrov,” Anthony replies, surprising me with his calmness.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about Yulia Vasiliev as well. The woman has been floating about for as long as I can remember, spending brief bursts of time here in the mansion before disappearing again. She hasn’t been to Chicago in over a year. As far as I know, the only person in communication with the woman is Anthony.

While I can’t deny a lack of understanding of their family dynamic, a part of me can’t help but despise the woman. If for nothing else than her obvious complete disregard of her daughter.

“Your father would be so disappointed in you,” Lana says sadly. “You had so much potential. You could have had everything. Instead, you chose to be weak, a coward.”

I think she’s trying to make Anthony angry, but her words don’t have the intended effect. She might as well be a fly buzzing in his ear for all the attention he’s paying her. He turns to me instead.

“Are you going to do something or not?” he asks in a bored tone.

I arch an eyebrow, “You sure you want to be in here for this next bit?”

“As long as there’s no blood,” he tells me on a shrug.

That makes me grin. I’m strangely proud. There might be some of the Bratva in him after all. I gesture at one of the guards who gets the message and exits the room. He returns a minute later with a container filled with water.

“I can get up to a lot of fun things without making people bleed, Ant,” I assure him.

The guard gets into position, placing the container in front of Lana Petrov. I smile as I watch fear finally fill her eyes.

“All you have to do is give me the location for the safe house, Lana. And then it all ends.”

“Over my dead body,” she spits in Russian.

“I’d be really careful what I wish for if I were you,” I tell her before offering the guard a short nod. “Begin.”

It’s time these people understood exactly how far I’d go to establish myself as Pakhan. If this is what it takes to not be seen as weak, I’m willing to do it and so much more.

My methods to drag the safe house location from Lana Petrov prove to be wholly ineffective, and I’m irritable when I return home later that day. It’s taking too long to find Igor. I shouldn’t have expected it to be easy—after all, the man was the Pakhan of an entire organization. And there’s no way to erase the influence he had overnight.

Sure, I have people on my side advocating for me. But I also have people doing the opposite, and that’s not going to stop unless I stomp out my opposition. I’m pretty sure Igor knows that as well. He’s probably biding his time, waiting for an opening so he can swoop in and kick me out.

I have no plans of letting that happen.

To make matters worse, when I arrive at the penthouse, my wife is nowhere to be found. I thought I’d come home and see if I could charm her into getting into bed with me, but her absence hits me square in the face as soon as I walk through the house.

It feels emptier without her here. Which is interesting, because until two weeks ago she’d never set foot within this walls. I take out my phone to ask where she is and maybe see if I could demand her return without her chewing my head off. But there’s no need for that because she walks through the doors of the house a couple of seconds later, the camera I got her slung around her neck.

She pauses when she sees me leaning against the wall, arms crossed as I observe her.

“You really need to stop acting like a creep, Morozova,” she says on a sigh. “What is this? A welcome home?”

“Where were you?”

“Out. Why do you care?” She brushes past me, heading toward our bedrooms.

She walks right past mine and heads for her door. I follow her through it without invitation.

“You’re my wife. I got home and you weren’t here. Of course I care where you were and what you were up to.” I watch as she places the camera safely in the carrying bag I got her.

She then takes off her brown jacket, revealing a white crop top underneath that shows off her smooth, creamy skin. She whirls around, placing her hands on her hips.

“When are you going to stop flippantly throwing that word around? Stop calling me your wife all the time,” she grits out, clearly ramping up for a fight.

Unfortunately for her, this is exactly the sort of stuff that gets me going. I could simply text one of the guards and ask them to give me a complete rundown of her day, but I’d rather she just tell me.

“I’ll stop it when you accept that you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours, Morozova,” she growls.

“Just tell me about your day.”

She pauses at that, considering before shrugging once. Her body relaxes with that one action.

“I will if you cook us dinner. I’m starving,” she says, big brown eyes pleading.

Like I could ever say no to that offer. “Come on, sweetheart.”

The two of us head into the kitchen and I begin to prep some of the ingredients for our meal. Anastasia sits on the counter, observing the process. She volunteers to help, but I tell her to sit her pretty ass down and let me do all the work. In exchange for the sound of her voice.

“I went out with Leah in the morning,” she starts. “We got breakfast and then we went to the racing tracks.”

I arch an eyebrow in question because I never would have pegged her someone interested in horse racing.

“What? I like to watch the horses and take pictures of them,” she tells me. “They scare me, though, so I’ve actually never gotten on one. But I find them interesting.”

“Horses aren’t scary, solnyshko . If you give a horse your trust, it’ll begin to trust you right back. Horses are like people.”

“I don’t trust people,” she states.

“Which is probably wise,” I murmur, my eyes catching hers. “But you can’t go through life letting your mind keep you away from the things you enjoy. You should do anything you want to, baby. Mount any horse you wish to. Any at all,” I add, my voice coming out lighter on that last part.

Her cheeks heat as she takes in the smirk on my face, picking up on the innuendo pretty quickly.

“You’re a pig, Morozova,” she mutters.

I chuckle. “What else did you do today?”

“After the race tracks, Leah dragged me out shopping. She tends to do that. It’s stress relief for her,” she informs me. “After that we got lunch and then I came home. I got bored pretty quickly so I decided to go on a walk. And now I’m here, relaying the entirety of the day’s events to my bossy husband.”

“I’m not bossy,” I retort.

“You are the bossiest person I’ve ever met, Mr. ‘I don’t take no for an answer and I always get what I want,’” she mimics, taking on a deeper voice that sounds nothing like me.

When my lips curl in distaste, she laughs and the sight of it immediately melts away my annoyance. It hurts, seeing her laugh like that. I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt.

“You took your camera along on your walk,” I mention, remembering she had it slung over her neck when she walked in. I lean against the counter, watching her. “How did you get into photography?”