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Thirty-Three
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Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Four
MariaThe sheer curtains stretch across my bedroom window, concealing Manhattan below. I don't care what's going on outside. My attention is on the painting Mikhail has hung on the wall across from my bed.It's the same Kuzma Fedorov from the gallery.I smirk, noticing it's turned right-side up. In this orientation, I can see that there's more than just a face. The splotches of purple and blue that had been unrecognizable against the green background now transform into a field of wildflowers. And the face, previously upside down, now smiles at the view.I lean in close and close my eyes, imagining I can smell the flowers, even though they're strokes of paint.There's something strangely appropriate. It's like a part of me is trapped within the canvas, forever pictured sitting by a window while staring wistfully outside ever since my world was turned upside down.Yesterday, I watched Mikhail talk to the wedding planner from the corner of my eye. He didn't say it, but he wanted to be al
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Five
MariaSlowly, I notice a man alone across the room, seemingly engrossed in a display of armor in a tall case. But there's something off about him. Each time I glance away from a display, he's there in my periphery. Not close but visible, sending the occasional furtive glance in our direction. He never lingers too long in one spot or gets too close to the other visitors."Who is he?" I ask, my pulse quickening. "Are we in trouble?"Mikhail hesitates, then leans in close so only I can hear. "Lanzzare.""Who?" I ask in confusion. I've never heard of a name like that."I'll tell you later.""Why is he watching us?" I ask, trying to keep my voice low and steady. "Will he hurt us?""He won't dare," Mikhail reassures me. "Not here. But stay close, Maria."Mikhail touches his phone, and in a few minutes, our driver, Anton, appears. He lets the man see him. No words are exchanged, but the man gives a curt nod before he walks away. That's when I realize he's not alone.Another man—one of Mikhai
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Six
MikhailI never should have kissed her.Kidnapping Maria was a necessary evil. Or so I tell myself. But deep down, I know I crossed a line that I can never uncross.Sunlight streams through the wide windows, casting a bright light into the room. The clear morning is in stark contrast to the storm brewing around me. No, within me. The light illuminates a painting hanging on the wall—an abstract piece with swirls of red and black, like blood mingling with shadows. I get up to close the blinds to protect my collection, and I feel like an ogre hiding my treasures. I glance toward the spiral staircase, half-hoping to see Maria descend. But she doesn't.A princess in a tower. How appropriate. But I'm no prince. The real prince died years ago.What if ...A new disturbing thought takes shape in my mind. I don't dare let it finish.I can't deny the feelings that Maria is invoking inside of me. They complicate things in more ways than I want to admit. Lust is not love, I tell myself.But what I
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Seven
MikhailZhanna turns to face me, ready to lace into me again, I suppose, but her expression changes to alarm. Her pale blue eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. At first, I think she's having a stroke until I turn quickly to see what caused it.Maria is descending the spiral staircase.Her eyes meet mine briefly, filled with questions and concern, before focusing on Zhanna, first with curiosity and then with a hint of apprehension.Zhanna lifts her finger and points at Maria. "Who is this?" she demands in Russian."She's my fiancée," I reply in English as I step between them to shield Maria from Zhanna's piercing gaze and sharp tongue. "Maria.""Maria ..." she whispers the name as she rises from her seat.Zhanna's haughty countenance crumples at the sight of Maria, revealing an unfathomable sadness. She looks at Maria with a gloomy look edged with tiredness, as though seeing an old friend after years apart. A friend she regrets not treating like the good friend they were. Her gaze dr
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Eight
MariaI don't know why I wore a satin dress. This isn't the prom, not that I went. The material is already wrinkled, and we haven't left the limo. Smoothing it with my hand is not helping. I look like a peach throw pillow that's burst open and been put back together with double-stick tape.We've driven almost an hour and still haven't arrived. My right leg bobs up and down like a piston until the limo passes through a pair of towering ironwork gates leading down a drive to a massive mansion.I jump when a man with an earpiece peers into the tinted window directly at me. The only thing separating us is the glass. Intricate tattoos cover his hands and neck, and my heart sticks in my throat. He eyes me warily and then Mikhail.Mikhail barely turns his head as he continues talking with Rurik, Larissa's husband. Rurik lifts his hand and motions the man away.The man taps on the window, motioning for the window to lower. I slowly move closer to Mikhail, and he looks over."What does he want
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Nine
Maria"So, this is the one your brother picked.""My name is Darya Kuznetsov." A tall, bleached blonde in a tight gold gown looks me over. "Dima's wife."She pauses and waits for me to comment, but I don't. Dima? Why does that sound familiar?"He's around, talking to the men," Darya continues as she cocks an eyebrow. "How old are you, girl?""I'm eighteen." I try hard not to stare at her huge breasts, but she's wearing heels that put them right at eye level, and she radiates bitch energy."Best stay away from my Dima." Darya laughs, her voice shrill and sharp. But her eyes betray no humor, and when she stares, I can see the hate in them. "I told that neryakha that I was twenty when he came to talk to me. One look at you, and he'll know I lied."I clutch the stem of my glass and pull at the hem of my dress, aware of how out of place my pastel dress looks among these sophisticated designer dresses."I'll keep that in mind then," I stammer and walk away before Darya has a chance to throw
Arranged To The Bravta King Forty
MariaAfter meeting Natasha, I'm no longer gawked at by the other women, and I like it. Unfortunately, the room's nonstop chatter and the smell of fish are getting to me, so I walk over to the French doors leading into the massive yard. I gaze at the tantalizing woods in the yard, imagining the freedom they promise, but not daring to wander into them.Where would I go?A rock and a hard place are my only choices. So, I walk a fair distance over to a garden bench and sit down, ignoring the men with sunglasses and earpieces watching me.The grounds here are huge, and there are hints of roots and brambles all around, tracing a pattern that reminds me oddly of a maze.A man whispers something I cannot hear as I approach. I roll my eyes as I pass him and make sure he sees it. These people ignore me when I'm around, but the minute I leave, I'm watched. I pull my dress tightly around my legs and stare at the house, wondering where Mikhail is."Dance?" A deep voice interrupts my thoughts, and
Arranged To The Bravta King Forty-One
MikhailThe penthouse is quiet when I arrive home. I half expect Maria to be sitting where she was that other night after the bombing, flipping through a book from the shelf, admiring the glossy photos of art from museums she would like to see.Places all over the world, but she’s forced to stay here with me.But she’s nowhere to be found. I make my way up the stairs to her door, my mind still seeing the reproach in her eyes earlier, the wild fear when I reached for her, and behind the fear, unmistakable revulsion.I knock and hear only a sniffle. Gently, I open the door and find her wrapped in a robe and lying on her bed. The silly dress she wore is gone. She’s changed into her pajamas and her hair is still damp from the shower.“Are you all right?” I ask, searching her eyes.Maria’s face pales as she watches me walk toward the bed. Her lips part slightly, trembling as she tries to form words. She has no makeup on and her eyes are wide—the picture-perfect image of innocence and vulne
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