Midnight Oath (Tasarov Bratva 1)

She frowns. “Did you put a tracker on me or something? Plant a bug?”

I snort. “As if I’d need to go to those kinds of lengths to figure out what that mudak was up to.”

“So you just guessed he was coming to my house?” she asks. “Because I know him well, and I wouldn't have guessed he'd do something like this."

“Such an innocent little kiska. You have no clue what unhinged men are willing to do for a beautiful woman.”

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like “asshole.”

“That’s truer than you know,” I laugh. “But this asshole just saved your life.”

She sighs. “You're right. I'm sorry. Thank—”

I wave her off. “Save it. I don't do anything selflessly. If you'd like to come over here and show me exactly how thankful you are, then be my guest. Otherwise, your thanks don’t do anything for me.”

“Asshole,” she mumbles again.

I just smirk.

* * *

Ten minutes later, we’re almost back to the house. That’s when Emery moves. Her hand reaches towards me for half a second. Then her fingers curl and she pulls it back.

“Can we…? I’m not ready to go back to your house.”

“Too bad.”

“Please,” she says. “I need more time. This is all happening too fast.”

“I first offered you the deal three hours ago. That’s two hours and fifty-nine minutes more than most people get to accept my terms.”

“There are… there are things we need to sort out.”

“No, there aren’t,” I snap. “It’s all sorted. Either you come with me or you go home. If you’d prefer fending off Senator Waters in your piece of shit apartment, then be my guest. But you can get out and walk there.”

She shakes her head. “I just mean, shouldn’t we outline some guidelines? Rules or something?”

“Rules for what?”

She gestures between us. “Whatever this is.”

“This is marriage, Emery. It’s time you wrapped your head around that.”

Emery glances nervously at Isabella. She is slouched down, asleep in her chair. Her eyes are closed and the remote for the lights is lying in her open palm.

“You know what I mean,” she whispers. “This isn’t a marriage. It’s an… arrangement. A business deal.”

“Have it your way.” I shrug. “If this is a business deal, then I make the rules.”

“Excuse me? I’m not signing on to be a slave.”

“That’s a shame. You’d look delicious in a collar.”

She clenches her jaw and tries to hold back her blush, though she mostly fails. “This is a deal,” she repeats firmly. “We both get to decide the rules.”

“‘Deal’ implies you can offer me something. That’s a lie. You have nothing to bargain with. I have everything. You have no alternatives. I can do all things. So no, kiska, this is not a ‘deal.’ It is simply how things are going to go.”

She puffs a lock of hair out of her face. “Wow. ‘Asshole’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Guess I got it right on the dance floor.”

“Your hate is misdirected. I didn’t create the game; I just play it well."

"So because I don't live in a huge mansion and have an army of goons at my command, I have no power," she spits. “Did I get that right?”

I nod. "I'm glad you finally understand. So it’s agreed: I make the rules.”

“That’s not what I—I didn’t agree to jack shit. That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” I say flatly. “If you want my help, then you have to be useful to me. The moment you cease being useful, you are no longer my problem. You can go back to being his.”

I don’t have to say his name to make my point. Emery shudders at the memory of whatever the hell that bastard tried to do to her in there.

She crosses her arm, pressing her breasts even higher and testing my self-control that little bit more. Then she huffs. “Fine. What are your rules?”

I lay out the conditions simply. As compared to other deals I’ve brokered, this one is exceedingly simple. And with far less bloodshed.

“You marry me. We stay married until my father dies. In return, I protect you and your daughter from Malcolm Waters.”

“And keep Isabella in the drug trial?”

“And that,” I confirm.

She glances over at me out of the corner of her eye. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I say. “I’m not an unreasonable man, Emery.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her jaw shifts as she grinds her teeth, thinking it over. When she finally reaches towards me, hand extended to shake on it, I grab her wrist and pull her across the seat to me.

A golden tendril of hair falls forward and brushes across my cheek. Her vanilla scent fills my nose and I can feel the hardened points of her nipples pressing against my chest.

“I only have one more condition,” I rasp.

She looks at my mouth, her lower lip pinched between her teeth. This may be a business deal, but she’s giving me Fuck Me eyes like I’ve never seen before.

In moments like this, I understand how devils were once angels. She has pieces of both in her. I can’t wait to unravel the rest.

All at once, she snaps out of it and jerks back. “I am not consummating this marriage, if that’s what you’re thinking, motherfucker.”

“Is that what you were thinking?” I ask, a slow smirk spreading on my face.

“What? I—no, I wasn’t. I just—that’s not happening, okay? Not happening.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say softly.