Chapter Three: My husband's daughter

Ava

I was married.

Married.

I still couldn't believe it.

I was married to a man who crashed my wedding ceremony, declaring that my father had sold me to him when I was only seven.

That couldn't have been legal.

Oh, and that’s not even the crazy part. Far from it actually. Not only was I married to this crazy person, but apparently, this man was the long-lost heir of the Russian Mafia who was supposed to be dead.

And they say weddings aren't fun.

I drag my gaze towards the man seated in the driver's seat just a few inches away from me.

He sits there composed and unruffled, an effortless control radiating off him like he hadn't just hurled me on his shoulder and out of the church like a caveman seconds ago.

There was no denying the fact that the man beside me was the most painstakingly gorgeous man I had ever seen. His chiselled jaw, sharp cheekbones and tousled dark hair framed a face that belonged on the statue of a Greek god. But that still didn't give him the right to do what he did.

He had no right to storm into my wedding ceremony, threaten me and then marry me.

Annoyance flickered inside me, and I bit the inside of my cheek.

It pissed me off how attracted I found myself to him. Because I shouldn't be attracted to him. He was my husband. My captor. For God's sake, the man was a murderer. That alone should have easily killed any attraction I harbored for him.

Except it didn't.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He hadn't said a word since we exited the church. When my father tried to approach me after the ceremony, Nikolai made sure that he was able to get within an inch of me and for that, a part of me was grateful.

Truth be told, I wasn't ready to face my father yet, and I doubted I ever would be. My father saw me as nothing more than a commodity. Something to use to escape the web he so intricately wove for himself each time the strings became too tight.

It infuriated me just how much I let myself believe that he loved me but most of all I felt betrayed

I felt blindsided because no matter how coldly my father had treated me, I never once thought that he would willingly trade my life in exchange for his.

I return my gaze to the window, watching as the blurred scenery passes by in hurried flashes. It was a Saturday, and the streets were littered with weekend shoppers and couples strolling hand in hand who were oblivious to the fact that my entire world had just come crumbling down moments ago.

I let out a rough breath and glanced back at Nikolai whose eyes remained fixed on the road as he drove us to God knows where.

“Where are we going?” I ask, breaking the silence that had previously enveloped the car. My gaze shifts briefly from his face, stopping on the black ink peaking from under his shirt.

He offers a glance in my direction, and for a second, our eyes meet, and I’m instantly sucked into the intensity behind his irises.

Focus, I reprimand myself.

He was my captor. My captor. Nothing more nothing less.

“Home,” One word. A hundred meanings.

Although I’d grown up in a home, it stopped feeling like that after my mother's death. After she died my father preferred to spend his time locked in his study or supplying weapons to dangerous men rather than spend time with his own family.

Up until today, I made excuses for him. He just lost the love of his life it's understandable he didn't come for my recital. He's busy, he'll come to my exhibition next time.

Time and time again I had made excuses for a man who had no problem trading me to save himself at the drop of a hat.

What does that say about me?

I let out a breath and leaned further into my seat. I try my best not to roll my eyes as I say, “Oh really, how informative” The sarcasm in my tone isn't lost on him.

“And where is that?”

Silence.

For some reason, his lack of a response only irks me further. I lean forward, snapping my fingers in his face.

“Hello, I’m talking to you,” I say.

His grip tightens around the steering wheel as his jaw tightens.

He was pissed.

Good.

I wanted him to be.

“You know, for someone who was awfully chatty earlier at the church, you seem to be pretty good at the whole silent brooding thing.”

Still nothing. But there's a faint twitch in his right index finger that tells me he heard me and that's enough to satisfy me.

For now.

Sinking further into my seat, I returned my gaze outside the window, fixing my eyes on the blurred scenery.

The ride ‘home’ seems to last forever. My back aches from sitting too long to the point that I'm overcome with relief when the sight of a black steel gate comes into view.

I guess the Russians were big on security. But then again, if I were someone who derived pleasure from killing people, I guess a heavy metal gate would be just what I needed to shield myself from the consequences of my actions.

Two heavily built men stand on either side of the gate. Their eyes lock on the vehicle as we approach, and once we stop in front of the gate, one of the men walks towards us.

Nikolai lowers the window, and the man says something in Russian, to which Nikolai replies also in their native tongue.

The man glances at me and makes an odd sound at the back of his throat before returning to his post at the gate. I watch as He leans in and whispers something to the other guard. The second guard nods and steps aside. He presses a button and the gate falls open with ease.

Nikolai drives down a path of smooth concrete. Palm trees stood on either side of the road against the backdrop of the sky, and I was immediately blown away by the scenery. For a place filled with hardened criminals, there was a surprising calm that filled the surroundings.

The road eventually thins into a driveway, and my breath hitches at the two-story house that comes into view.

The house or should I say mansion, is a masterpiece. It's a stunning example of Mediterranean architecture, with its warm, ornamented exterior painted in soft cream and adorned with terracotta roof tiles that gleamed under the sun. It was breathtaking.

Aside from the security guards littered around various points, the house appeared to be empty and I wondered if anyone other than Nikolai lived there.

Nikolai stops the car beneath a covered portico parking between two other cars. The engine dies down into a low hum before he turns the key switching it off.

I start to reach for my door to unlock it, but Nikolai stops me, his hand gripping my wrist as my fingertips brush the door handle.

The warmth from his fingers stops me in my tracks, and I look at him, then at his hand, then back at him.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't respond, he simply unwraps his fingers from my wrist and unlocks his door.

In four brisk strides, he rounds the vehicle, stopping at my side. He unlocks the door, and when I make no move to step out of the car, he speaks.

“Get out.”

A command.

Okay then.

Mumbling under my breath, I gathered the hemline of my dress and stepped out of the vehicle. I paused, realising he hadn't moved away yet.

His body brushes against mine and goose flesh erupts all over my body. We were barely inches apart, and as much as I tried to repress it, the memory of our kiss at the altar resurfaces in my mind.

The feeling of his lips against mine, the roughness of his touch, the way he swallowed all of every sound that left my throat like he was afraid they would slip past him.

As if he sensed my thoughts, his gaze dropped to my lips and I watched his eyes darken.

For a moment, I feared he might lean in and kiss me again like he did at the altar, except this time it wouldn't be in Infront of confused spectators and a pissed off ex soon-to-be father-in-law and his son. It would be just the two of us, in his parking lot. The thought is enough to pull me back from whatever trance I was momentarily trapped in and I step away from him, creating some much-needed distance between us.

He lingers in the space for a beat, eyes fixed on me before leaning back, his expression unreadable.

“Follow me,” he says, his voice calm and commanding.

I do. Trying my best to keep up with his long strides. Not only was my husband inexplicably tall, but one of his strides equalled two of mine, which made keeping up with him rather exhausting,

Husband. The word stops me in my tracks.

As of yesterday,whoasn’t even in a relationship and now I was married.

Fucking married. Can you believe that?

Me, the girl who had never been in a relationship was now entangled in a lifetime commitment with a man who only saw me as a possession to be claimed. I can’t help it, I laugh. I laugh until I’m gasping for breath and I’m certain I am going to pass out.

Nikolai stops mid-stride and turns around to face me. A frown creases his forehead as he witnesses the way I throw my head back in laughter.

“Something funny, Solnishko ?” He questioned, his tone tight. I shook my head, wiping the corner of my eyes with my ringless finger.

“I-I’m sorry,” I say, in between fits,

“It's just that this whole thing”, I gesture between the two of us, “is fucking hilarious, don't you think?”

The corners of his lips twitch slightly, fighting an annoyed smile

“Funny isn't the word I would use to describe your current situation, Solnishko”

There's an edge in the way he says those words that cause the laughter to quickly die down on my tongue.

What the fuck did he mean by that?

And why was he still calling me that horrible nickname? I had no idea what it meant but I was beginning to think that it was some kind of russian insult.

"Would you stop calling me that already? It's getting annoying."

Nikolai's lips twitch, a glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Solnishko?"

He repeats that horrible nickname again and I can barely keep the annoyance bubbling within me at bay.

"Stop it. How would you like it if I constantly insulted you in a foreign language you had no idea how to speak?"

My question only seems to spark his amusement further.

"Solnishko is hardly an insult"

"Then what does it mean?"

He doesn't respond. Instead, he condescendingly shrugs his shoulders and turns around, continuing his descent to the entrance of the house, leaving me momentarily rooted in place.

it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with his mood swings. I didn't understand him. One minute, he was giving me the silent treatment, and the next, he was teasing me. It was confusing.

Tightening my hold on my dress I follow him, trying my best to keep up with his pace until he stops in front of the entrance.

He reaches for the doorknob but before his fingers can brush the cool brass the door is yanked open.

Standing on the other side of the door is a girl that could be no older than six years old. She's wearing a set of Blue pajamas and standing barefoot on the floor, her eyes are wide and she's sprouting a grin that reveals her missing tooth. Dark curls frame her round face and she looks up at Nikolai with the most adorable expression I had ever seen etched into her eyebrows.

But it's not just her expression that stops me in my tracks. No, it’s the shade of her eyes. They're green, forest green to be precise.

Just like the man beside me.

“Papa!” she exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement as she looks at my captor as if he hung the moon.

My heart stops.

Papa?