Seduction: A Dark Bratva Fake Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)
Seduction: Chapter 4

I startle awake to the plane shaking so badly at first I think I must be dreaming. When I realize it isn’t a dream, I gasp and try to stand but am quickly pulled down by large, strong hands.

“Nyet.” Markov is holding me tight against him, his arms like vice gripping me. The overhead speaker crackles.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve hit a bit of turbulence. There is nothing to fear. Please remain seated and be sure your safety belts are fastened. We should be able to navigate out of this pocket short⁠—”

His words are cut off when the plane takes a sudden deep nosedive. Screams drown out any more thoughts, mine along with everyone else’s. Panic swoops over me. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel tears escape between my lids.

A calm, collected voice beside me anchors me to safety. “Vsyo budet khorosho.”

His tone, for the first time, is softened and reassuring. I have no idea what he’s saying, but somehow, it puts me at ease. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth when a large, warm hand comes to rest on my thigh.

I open my eyes to see him staring straight ahead, ever the picture of stoicism. His jaw clenches, but he shows no fear. My mind swirls in a tempest of fear – what if we crash? Would we survive? My scientific mind immediately calculates how far up we are, our location, the chances of survival. I can hardly form a cohesive thought. What if we – what if I–

Just as soon as the turbulence began, it stops. The plane flies calmly now in the inky darkness of the night sky.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. My breathing regulates.

“Spasibo.”

I’m glad I brushed up a bit on my phone.

Markov gives me a silent nod.

I look down at his hand resting on my thigh. We realize at the same time he’s touching me in a way my bodyguard has no business touching me. He was only reassuring me, yes, but the continued intimacy of his hand on my thigh has crossed a line we should never cross.

My cheeks flame, and a warm trickle of awareness flutters between my thighs.

Maybe I shouldn’t have spent the last hour before I fell asleep reading about dominant, perfect, sexy as fuck billionaires, especially when I’m in such close proximity to the sexiest Russian I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I lay my hand on top of his and, with great reluctance, push his hand off of me.

I feel his eyes on me but don’t return his gaze as the flight attendant comes to us.

“I’m so sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “Unless you’re personally responsible for the behavior of the sky, I don’t think it’s your fault. But thank you.”

Markov says something to her in rapid Russian that makes her laugh. She responds, and he gives her a glimmer of a smile.

An unexpected stab of jealousy hits me straight in the solar plexus. I want to know what he said to her. I didn’t even know the man was capable of humor.

I want to be the one that makes him smile. Or, almost smile anyway.

They continue chattering, and I pick up my book. Fine, have a conversation that doesn’t include me. I’ll just read my book and pine away with unrealistic expectations, no big deal.

“He says to tell you he was only trying to comfort you and apologizes if he was untoward.”

I blink and look up at the flight attendant. “Excuse me?”

She repeats herself. I look over to see him staring straight at me, as serious as always.

I clear my throat.

“Please tell him thank you.” I want to say so much more, but for once, I’m grateful for the language barrier.

I glance at the time, surprised to see I slept through most of the flight. We land in an hour.

“Can I get you a snack?” The flight attendant offers the two of us a basket. I recognize little packets of trail mix and a few candies, but there are other snacks I’ve never seen. Русское Поле, some sort of rye crisp, and a variety of chocolates with names like Коркунов.

“Those are excellent,” she says. “Do you like chocolate?”

“Mmm. Of course.”

“Here,” she says with a smile. “Take a few of each.”

I’m not surprised when Markov declines a snack and drink, considering the fact that he probably subsists on egg white omelets and protein shakes. A man does not carve out a body like that on potato chips and chocolate.

I eat my snacks and comment on them, pretending he can understand me, only because the silence between us feels heavy and weighted. “Mmm. I like the delicate flavor of the chocolate,” I say, like I’m doing some kind of review. “Though the subtle hint of roasted nuts is quite nice. Not quite an M&M, but it will do.”

He just continues to stare straight ahead. What causes someone to be so serious?

I turn back to my book and lose myself in a fake world with fake promises that won’t ever happen in real life.

I wish my father hadn’t insisted I take a bodyguard with me.

Despite Markov’s silence and stony disposition, he snaps into action as soon as we land. I don’t even bother fighting him when it comes to carrying my bags. At this point, I figure I might as well enjoy the bit of pampering, or whatever it is you want to call it. I don’t know how he quite manages it, but he holds our bags, escorts me off the plane, and seamlessly guides me toward the exit.

Though it was a ten-hour flight to Moscow, due to the time difference, we arrived in Moscow midday. It feels strange, honestly, as if we’ve skipped a whole day. The sun hangs high in the clear blue sky in contrast to the inky night we left behind. As we exit the plane, the brisk air of Moscow greets us, a welcome change from the stale cabin air we’ve endured. The hustle and bustle of Sheremetyevo Airport greets us with travelers and locals alike navigating terminals with practiced ease. The diverse mix of accents and languages around us create a lively hum. My body feels weighted from jet lag, but there’s an underlying current of excitement. I’ve never left my country. This is a new chapter of my life filled with promise.

We gather our luggage and head to the pick-up area. “I was told there would be a car waiting for us—um, me,” I amend. I’m not sure how I’m going to explain his presence to the people I’ll be working with. I sigh when he stares at me and pull out my phone to bring up the translation app when I see a driver standing beside a large SUV with a sign that says Vera Ivanova in bold black lettering.

I point. “There, that’s for us.”

Markov gives the man a flinty look and nods, carrying our bags. A tall woman who looks vaguely familiar waves excitedly to me. I realize when we get closer to her that I recognize Professor Irina Kuznetsova with her sharp, intelligent eyes, slender frame, and short silver hair. She’s the woman I did a teleconference with a few weeks ago, the one in charge of the program. Wow. I had no idea she’d come all the way here just to see me.

“Vera! Welcome!” she says in perfect English. She gives Markov a curious look.

“Professor Kuznetsova?” I say, reaching a tentative hand out to her. “You came all the way to get me at the airport? I’m honored, really.”

“Please, call me Irina,” she says sheepishly. “You and another one of your classmates, Jake Thomas, took the same flight. I had no time to introduce you two or I would have made sure you made each other’s acquaintance well before the flight.”

Markov stands stoically to the side.

“You brought a guest?” she asks, her brow furrowed.

God. Here we go.

“Looks more like a bodyguard to me,” a booming voice says in English behind me. I turn to see a man who could be the poster child for ‘All-American’ standing behind me—light brown hair, perfect teeth, pale blue eyes, and an athletic build.

He looks like a child next to Markov.

“Jake Thomas,” he says, extending his hand to me. “We were on the same flight but not all of us got mysteriously upgraded to first class.” He circles his neck as if pained from sleeping in coach and gives me a wink.

I turn away, my cheeks flushing. Markov narrows his eyes.

“Bodyguard?” Irina asks. Oh, God. I can’t stand the idea of anyone thinking I brought a bodyguard with me. Nobody knows who I am or where I come from.

What if she sends me home? After everything I’ve done and everything I’ve gone through to get into this program…

My cheeks flush hot as I shake my head and remember that Markov can’t speak English. “No, no,” I say with a forced laugh, trying not to panic. I wasn’t supposed to bring anyone with me. I should be here alone. Goddamn my father for not thinking about the finer details. It’s so typical of him to pronounce something that will have a direct impact on my life without caring about the ramifications for me.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “This is—this is my husband.” Markov thankfully doesn’t react because he has no idea I just told such a bold-faced lie.

Irina stares but quickly composes herself.

“Oh! Of course!” Irina says. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

She takes out her mobile and makes a quick call. I can’t understand what she’s saying but it seems as if she’s pleading with someone. Markov listens carefully, his face darkening.

Shit.

She comes back a minute later, smiling broadly. “All set,” she says. “You can come with me. I’ve arranged a car ride back to the school and will only have to make a minor adjustment to the room situation.”

Oh dear God.

The room situation.

“Have you two met on the way here?” Irina says, a wide smile in place. “Mr. Thomas didn’t come from too far away, Ms. Ivanov,” she says. “You hail from the Midwest, don’t you?”

”I do,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets as if he’s being modest. “Though the last few years I studied at Harvard.”

Oh, God, name-dropping an Ivy League. Lovely.

The bustling atmosphere of the airport surrounding us makes me feel even more exhausted than ever. I stifle a yawn.

“You must be exhausted after that flight. Come, we’ll get you situated in your rooms and give you time to rest before we have a formal dinner tonight to introduce everyone.”

Get you situated in your rooms.

What have I done?

“Thank you.”

I have to tell Markov. If he hears from anyone else what happened. . . what if he tells them I lied? That he is actually my bodyguard?

How am I going to tell him?

Markov fits the luggage in an overhead rack on the roof of the car, which is admittedly handy. Jake gets into the car first, and I go to follow, but Markov takes me by the arm and shakes his head. “Nyet.”

He jerks his head behind him and makes me step aside so that he can sit beside Jake.

“Heh,” Jake says. “I guess if it were my wife, I wouldn’t want her sandwiched between us either.” He gives me a smile. I’m glad somebody can be a good sport about things.

A part of me is admittedly thankful, though. I don’t know Markov well, but I know him better than Jake, and if I’m going to be sitting side-by-side with a man, stuffed so close together we’re like sardines in a can, I’d rather be next to Markov than a stranger I don’t trust.

It doesn’t really dawn on me that, for all intents and purposes, Markov is a stranger I don’t trust.

We’re squeezed together on the ride to the school while Jake and Irina chatter on in Russian and I fight to keep my eyes open. Why did I say he was my husband? I had the entire flight to come up with a plan but feel like I’m flailing. What will they do with a married couple in the program? Ugh.

Markov sits upright, constantly scanning our surroundings as if looking for a potential threat while he keeps his facade in place. I guess that’s his job. Is he always this vigilant?

My eyelids are heavy, but I try to keep them open. I don’t want to miss anything. As we approach the campus in Moscow, the vibrant energy of the city excites me. The streets are alive with a mix of people—students hurrying along with laptop bags and backpacks, street vendors selling foods, and business professionals in suits and skirts hurrying from one place to the next. I notice Moscow’s famous metro buses and trams snaking their way through the crowd.

For the first time, I’m glad I have Markov with me. It’s overwhelming to think of being totally alone.

I stifle a yawn. I like my sleep and hardly got any last night. The car is warm, and Markov’s like an electric heater beside me. I fight to stay awake but still replace Markov gently shaking my shoulder as we arrive.

“We have housing adjacent to the dorms for our grad students in specialty fields. It’s nothing fancy and really, glorified dorms, but they’re at least semi-private.”

I look at Markov, but he doesn’t respond. I discreetly take out my phone and type a message in the translator app I downloaded. I have to tell him what I told her. He has to be able to play the part.

“I’m sorry, but there was a miscommunication. For now, just for now, you have to pretend to be my husband. Okay?”

I stare at the foreign words in front of me, unable to read them. Is that really what I want to say? Do I have a choice? I translate the words back and forth until I’m satisfied and I have no more time. We’re almost there.

I tap Markov’s shoulder and show him the translation before I lose my courage.

I watch him read it. What will he do? What if he insists on telling the truth? Within seconds, his eyes narrow, and then he gestures for my phone. I nod, handing it over. He switches over to the Russian keyboard option. I watch, my mouth dry. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

I stare when he shows me the phone and his reply. It feels somehow intimate communicating with him like this.

Why didn’t you tell the truth?

I can almost hear the admonition in his rough, deep voice, his tone harsh.

I type in a response and hit the translator button again. It’s a clumsy way of communicating but it’s all we’ve got.

I don’t want them to know you’re my bodyguard!

I expect him to want to type out another message, shoves my phone back to me, then he gives one sharp cut of his hand to dismiss me and looks out the window.

I turn away and roll my eyes as we pull up to the college.

I never lived at college because of my strict upbringing, so a college atmosphere is quite new to me. The college itself is flanked on either side by imposing buildings, the architecture at once intricate and modern. My heart thumps. I’m really here. I made it.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.”

“Where did you grow up?” Jake asks me.

“New York.”

“Ah, you’re a city girl. I imagine Moscow and New York are still very different places.”

“Yes, but not all of New York is city. I spent some time in Upstate New York and more recently in a suburb just outside the city itself. Still, it is definitely not Moscow.”

I shrug and feel a heavy hand on my thigh. The doors to the car open, and everyone begins to exit, but I take a minute to look up at Markov. “What?” I whisper.

He gestures for my phone again, scowling, and taps something out on the Russian keypad before handing it back to me. I hit translate.

Do not trust.

Ah, of course my bodyguard’s telling me not to trust another man. I roll my eyes at him and tuck my phone in my pocket. I exit the door opposite him.

He predictably grabs our bags, a few at a time, and lines them up on the sidewalk. Irina says something in Russian. She gushes and praises, but he only shrugs and asks a question in return.

“He is such a gentleman,” she says in English. “It will be so refreshing to have such a nice married couple here with us! Come, I’ll show you your room. You must be so tired.”

As we walk, Jake walks beside me. “I’ve read your work,” he says in a low voice. He gives me a crooked smile, and I’m starting to wonder if pretending Markov is my husband was a good idea. What if I meet someone here? After all my sheltering, I’ve never had a chance like this before.

“Have you?”

“Yes,” Jake says. I notice when he smiles, there’s a little dimple on his cheek. “Your peer-reviewed analysis on improvised tourniquet techniques in field trauma care was exceptionally well done. I was impressed with the risks you took by applying unorthodox methods and the results you achieved. Truly impressive work.”

My chest swells with pride. “Thank you. I led the study but couldn’t have done it without the aid of the others I studied with.”

Jake smiles, his eyes warming at me. “Humble, too. You’d better have a flaw somewhere, Ms. Ivanov,” he says with a wink before he joins Irina.

Markov, as usual, walks beside me with a flinty expression on his face.

Seriously, why did I pretend we were married? I inwardly groan.

I need to make sure no one here knows who I really am, or who he is. This is my chance.

I think Markov and I are beginning to have some marital troubles.