Seduction: A Dark Bratva Fake Marriage Romance (Wicked Vows)
Seduction: Chapter 6

Someone’s shaking my shoulder. I’m dead asleep, warm and cozy in bed. It feels so good to sleep. Why is someone waking me in the middle of the night?

I open my blurry eyes and see a tall man standing over me. I’m completely overshadowed by the breadth of his body. I jerk back and gasp.

What the hell?

Caught between sleep and waking, I startle and flail. Tangled in the sheets, I almost fall out of bed. Just in time, he bends and catches me. I’m immediately aware of his clean, woodsy scent and the warmth and confidence of his touch.

Wait.

I recognize that sharp jawline and piercing eyes.

And the familiar perpetual scowl. “It’s just me. Relax.”

I blink, trying to clear my brain.

Did he just speak English?

Is he still. . . holding me?

His warm arms around me feel nice. He’s strong and sturdy, and I’ve always fantasized about what it would be like to be held by a strong man. . . like him.

It feels better than it did, even in my wildest fantasies.

I stare into the depths of those green eyes.

He definitely spoke English. There is way more to this man than he lets on.

“Let me go,” I whisper, even though a part of me wants to ask him to hold me tighter. Even though a part of me wants to reach out and run my fingers along the scruff on his strong, masculine jaw. We’re alone, just the two of us. What happens in Russia stays in Russia, right?

I half expect him to drop me on the bed like a sack of potatoes, but instead he gently releases me.

“You have to get ready to go.”

I sit up on the bed and stare at him. “Did you magically learn another language while I napped? Or have you been lying to me, Markov?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, which bows under his weight.

“I made a decision while you were sleeping.” He speaks with a thick Russian accent, but his English is perfect. “We must communicate more clearly if I’m to keep you safe. I never told you I didn’t speak English.”

I stare at him. Yeah, right. “Oh, don’t play that game with me. You know that you led me to believe you didn’t speak English. And here you are. . .” I gesture with my hands in confusion.

He shrugs. “I knew that you and I would be sharing quarters, though I didn’t know it would be”—he gestures to the bed—“quite this close. I thought it would be in your best interest and mine if we had distance between us. If we couldn’t communicate, we could remain professional. But I realize now that puts your safety at risk.”

My cheeks heat with a sudden realization of what he’s implying. “Do you think just because I’ve lived a sheltered life that I’m going to fall for the first hot guy I see as soon as I leave my parents’ home?”

His brows snap together. “Nyet.” It seems even when he’s trying to speak English, his Russian still makes an appearance. “I did not think that about you.”

Oh dear God. The memory of what I said earlier comes back in a rush…how he could take what I’ve said. I spoke too freely. Divulged too much.

I told him I don’t wear clothes to bed.

I told him he looked like Jason Bourne.

I should have kept my damn mouth shut.

Also? Who the hell am I kidding? He’s not just the first hot guy I’ve met, but he is sexy as hell and exudes every vibe of the dominant nature that makes me crazy. He’s the hero of a romance novel in real life, the classic Byronic hero.

If I’m Jane Eyre. . . he’s my Mr. Rochester.

I can’t think like that. I won’t allow myself.

But I have to admit I love hearing him speak.

I cannot allow myself to have a crush on this guy. He works for my father, and anybody who works for my father must be a dick.

Though he’s giving me an earnest look, the sharp cut of his jaw and the deep timbre of his voice remind me that he is no boy. “It is my job to protect you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. But you’re my boss’s daughter. If I so much as touched you, he would kill me.” His eyes, a striking shade of steel blue, hold mine with an intensity that underscores his solemn vow.

He continues speaking, outlining the boundaries he must never cross, the lines drawn so rigidly by duty and honor. Yet, I’m still caught up in his earlier words—beautiful, intelligent woman. He said it with such natural conviction, as if stating something as undebatable as the sky being blue. No underlying charm, no playful smirk to soften the edges of his professionalism. Just plain fact.

Blood thunders in my ears, a relentless drum that makes it difficult to focus on anything but the man in front of me. His presence is commanding, his commitment palpable, and it sends a flurry of butterflies through my stomach. I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice, to appear as unaffected as he is disciplined. But it’s a formidable challenge, when every fiber of my being reacts to the proximity of him—this man who might see me as more than a duty…

He glances at his phone, the light casting a glow on his steely features. “I’m sorry we started off this way. It’s time that I told you the truth. I speak English as well as anybody here. Maybe then I can… communicate more effectively with the American.” The way he says communicate more effectively sends chills down my spine. The underlying threat in his tone is unmistakable.

I swallow hard. “Markov, you need to leave him alone. He’s in the program with me.”

The flash of his eyes is almost predatory and makes my heart quicken with a mix of fear and anticipation.

“He’s hot for you, and he’s a dick. I’ll take care of it. Now get up and ready so we’re not late.”

I shake my head in disbelief, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and alarm, when I glance at the time. “Oh my God! We have to be there in ten minutes!”

“Do you need more time than that?” His question comes casually, as if our earlier exchange hasn’t altered the dynamics of our relationship. It’s so strange that all of a sudden he’s speaking English. I can hardly wrap my brain around the sudden shift. Part of me is relieved– now, I actually have an ally here, one I can communicate with.

But can I trust him? Doubt gnaws at me, unsettling my thoughts. There I go again, thinking like we’re in a romance novel.

We have no relationship beyond the professional. There is no foundation of trust or affection. He works for my father and is my bodyguard. Period. End of story.

But is anything really that simple?

“Okay, listen. I can get ready in ten minutes, but for future reference, I typically need a little more than that.” I gesture in my hair. “My hair alone can take ten minutes. “

“Why?” He looks genuinely confounded.

“It goes all frizzy when I sleep. I can’t walk out in public like this.”

He shakes his head. Even though he speaks English, it still feels like he has a language barrier.

“You could braid it? I’ve heard my sister say that helps.” He averts his eyes for a moment as if he shouldn’t have said that. Huh.

“Well, I don’t know how to braid it. Not on myself anyway. And that would make me look so young. I’m already basically the youngest one in the program. . .”

Markov scowls. “We have no time to argue details. Look, I can braid it for you. And you don’t look young. You come off too collected and mature to look like a child. That American, though, he looks like a child. Do you have a hair tie?”

Wait. Did I actually wake up, or am I still dreaming?

I stare at him before replying. “I have a hair tie.”

We have no time to waste, and he’s right. . . it would help me get ready. Braiding will quickly tame it, and then I can dash on some makeup and change into some nice clothes. Next thing I know, I’m rummaging through my bag, trying to replace a hair tie.

“You’re already dressed! Did you do that while I was sleeping? Did you even get any rest?”

“Yes, I changed when you were sleeping. No, I didn’t sleep but it’s no matter. Give me the hair tie.”

Am I really going to let him braid my hair?

Do I have much choice other than doing a messy and weird bun? While I wouldn’t call myself vain, I’d like to avoid the mad scientist look if I can help it.

He gestures for me to sit at the desk chair while he stands behind me. It feels strangely intimate when he runs my brush through my hair. I quickly take it from him and shake my head. “I can do this part.” My cheeks are hot again, the heat creeping down my neck. I hope he doesn’t notice.

I brush my hair, pulling out the tangles, and I know exactly what it looks like now. The tangle-free fluffy mess is reminiscent of cotton candy.

“Where did you learn how to braid hair?”

“My brother has a stepchild. My niece. She’s three years old and has long blonde hair. I’m one of her favorites. So I learned. It’s not hard. “

Ugh, that’s adorable. Dammit.

He quickly gathers the hair at the nape of my neck, sending little tingles down my spine. It’s the sexiest thing a man has ever done to me, which is really pretty pathetic if you think about it.

I like the feel of his warm hand on the back of my neck. Separating the hair into strands, and with a tenderness that belies the way he’s been until now, he plaits my hair. When he’s done, he surprises me by giving it a little tug.

“Hey! What was that?”

“For talking back to me earlier.” He leans down, not quite touching me, but so close that the warmth of his breath tickles my neck. “Don’t do that again. Behave yourself, Vera. Remember, I’m your husband. You should show your husband some respect.”

Before I can gather up my thoughts or somehow slow the rapid beating of my heart, he’s gone, and I’m left wondering. . . Is Markov flirting with me? Or was he serious? I can’t look at him because I’m afraid that if he sees my eyes, he’ll somehow know that that little threat made me all kinds of hot and bothered. My God.

I go to get clothes out of my bag only to replace that he’s already unpacked and layered everything in the drawers. “You unpacked for me?”

He shrugs. “I was bored, and I knew that you wouldn’t have much time to get dressed. And we need to go.”

It was kind of nice of him to do that, but still. . . what did I have in those bags he saw?

“Um, thanks.” I guess if he’s my bodyguard and pretend husband, I might have to give up a little of my privacy. But I’m mentally cringing at the memory of the plain white underwear and plain white bras that I packed. Why would I wear anything sexy? It was just supposed to be me. I don’t even own anything sexy.

I quickly grab a clean skirt and a top. Something business casual. He’s wearing a light blue button-down dress shirt and navy pants that fit him like a glove. He looks effortlessly put together and casual.

Markov scowls. “Five minutes until we have to go. Skip the makeup.”

Okay, now he’s stepping too far.

“No. My face is all blotchy from all that travel. I at least need a little lip gloss.” I turn my back to him and grab my little bag. “And excuse me, but fake husband that you may be, you are not the boss of me.” I need to hold my own with this one.

He presses his lips together and narrows his eyes at me. “I’m your husband. You should obey your husband.”

Oh no, he doesn’t. I glare at him. I’m suddenly reminded of the way he told me to behave myself.

I open my mouth to protest in some effective, persuasive way, but instead, I turn, run to the bathroom, and slam the door behind me.

Good one, Vera. Very graceful.

I toss makeup on quickly as if my life depended on it and join him back in the room. He gives me a quick look of appraisal and turns away.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth. I should have. I was pulled from another mission to be put on this one, and I made some quick decisions. It won’t happen again.”

It’s hard to hold a grudge with an apology that’s so honest and direct. I’m so relieved we can actually talk to one another that I’m quick to forgive.

“Thank you. So, do you want that American dude to know that you speak English?

“Believe me,” he says with a smile. “He’s going to know that very quickly.”

“Remember, this is my professional job here, Markov. . .”

“I’ll remember.” His eyes darken. “And so will he.”

We have no more time to chat. Why do I all of a sudden feel so shy in front of him now that we can communicate more freely? That layer of protection between us isn’t there anymore.

When he opens the door, I walk past him. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “I know what my job is, Vera. Do you know yours? That little attitude you gave me a few minutes ago? I’ll remember that.” He smiles and nods. “After you, wife.”

Oh, my God, I really need to start reading romcom instead of all that erotic romance. Seriously. Maybe thrillers.

“I studied the map while you were sleeping,” he says. “It’s this way.” He reaches for my hand.

“Markov—”

“You’re supposed to be my wife,” he says in a whisper. “You were the one that chose this, Vera.”

Shit. He’s right. I take his hand and practically have to trot to keep up with his long strides.

“We need to solidify the story,” he says in a low voice only meant for me to hear.

“What story?”

“How we met. When we got married. All of that.”

Something about just hearing him so those words… those events that I’ve longed for and mostly given up hope of ever happening… just hearing him speak them aloud makes my heart thump in my chest.

Why did I do this?

“Okay. Um. Alright, we can tell them we were high school sweethearts. We went our separate ways after graduation and reunited at a friend’s wedding.”

“High school sweethearts? That can’t work. I’m way older than you. “

I didn’t even think of that. “Are you? How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-one. You’re, what, twenty-two, twenty-three? Next idea.”

“Right. Um. . . I was on vacation, hiking in the mountains of Switzerland, and you were my tour guide?”

He shakes his head. “Do I really look like someone who could be a Swiss tour guide? And what if they ask me about it? The only thing I can tell you about Switzerland is that the chocolate’s good.”

I snort. “Okay, so, what’s your genius idea?”

He purses his lips and scowls. “Online dating service. The algorithm matched us as compatible, even though we come from two very different backgrounds. You were too busy with grad school to date, but we hit it off immediately. After only three months of dating, we eloped, much to our parents’ chagrin. That was a year ago.”

My romance lover’s heart thumps. This is a dangerous place to be, but I can already see the dining hall and Irina waiting for us. We don’t have any more time.

“Deal.”

“Vera! Markov! I hope you got some rest,” Irina says, greeting us at the door. “We’re still waiting for a few guests, but please go on in and introduce yourselves.”

Markov opens the door and rests his hand on the small of my back. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Remember what I said about the American and about behaving yourself. I expect an obedient wife, Vera.”

I discreetly stick my tongue out at him and relish the look of challenge in his eyes. If he thinks he’s going to tell me what to do, he can think again.

If I behave myself, he might stop threatening me. But a girl needs to live a little. He can’t actually touch me, so I’ll have my fun.

Jake stands beside a tall, lithe man with short silver hair. When I realize who it is, I forget all about Markov and tamp down the need to fangirl. I want to pinch myself. The man beside Jake is none other than Dr. Antoly Morozov, the scholar I’ve idealized since grade school. When he sees me, he smiles widely in greeting.

“Welcome. You must be Vera Ivanova. And this is. . .”

“My husband, Markov.” Markov and I shake hands with him.

“I’m Professor Morozov,” the professor says, extending his hand. “Allow me to introduce the rest. Liam O’Sullivan.” He points to another tall man with fiery red hair who looks friendly enough, but I notice a guardedness in his posture. Maybe he’s just a reserved Irishman.

“Sophia Lang.” A petite woman with jet-black hair and striking blue eyes. Despite her delicate appearance, she seems to carry herself with confidence. “So nice to meet you,” she says in a clipped accent.

“And Maxim Smith.”

A blond man with wire-rimmed glasses extends a hand to me.

“Hello! Are you also American?”

He shakes his head. “My mother is Russian, and my father is American, hence my name. But I’ve spent most of my life here in Moscow. “

Markov nods. “As did I. Whereabouts?”

They continue their discussion in Russian, and I’m glad Markov might have at least made an acquaintance. His presence here seems natural, which makes me want to breathe a sigh of relief.

Jake sidles up next to me while Irina pours wine and Markov is busy talking to Maxim. “I thought your husband didn’t speak English?”

“Of course he does. He’s just a man of few words.”

Still, Jake regards him warily. “I’m glad you’re not alone. It can be lonely out here without somebody’s company. Especially when we get to the fieldwork.” Markov looks over at us.

I don’t respond because I’m not exactly sure what to say to him, but apparently, Markov does. He leans over and rests an arm on the table beside me. The scent of the woods and spice somehow reassures me. “She most definitely won’t be going alone on fieldwork.”

“Is that allowed?” Jake asks, undeterred. He takes a sip of wine and keeps his face impassive.

Markov doesn’t respond, but he looks like he wants to deck him. Professor Morozov smiles and holds his glass of wine up in a toast. “Absolutely. My own wife occasionally accompanies us as well. With today’s political climate, I think we’d be wise to bring a bodyguard-type with us, don’t you?”

While everyone else laughs, I nearly choke on my wine. Markov, however, only winks at me. It appears he has a charming side he’s been hiding all along.

Can they all know who he really is?

But how much do I know?