Owned by the Badman (Russian Bratva #1) (2 page)

No, it terrified her.

Her
fiancé
was perpetually unable to attend every single social, or private gathering, arranged for them to meet leading up to their wedding day. He had an excuse for everything. Her parents refused to entertain her questions, even withholding his name.

Nothing but wedding details were up for discussion, and even then, she wasn’t making any decisions for the affair—Amelia was. So although it seemed medieval, Haleigh’s first encounter with her
fiancé
was to be on their actual wedding day.

Haleigh wondered if he would even show?

If he would be cruel or kind?

Most importantly, she wondered why she let her mother force her,
yet again
, into something that terrified her.

No matter her love or hate for the ballet, this was more than just a show.

This was her life—
her future
—and she was scared.

One Week Before The Wedding

I
INHALED THE SMOKE
before letting it out into the face of a man who would not live to see another day. I need to be done with this man. I have something more important on my mind these days.
Haleigh
. She will be mine soon.

So very soon
.

The suspense of seeing her pretty face waiting for me has me curious. Confusion and possibly hesitation will surely be displayed in her eyes, but she will perform beautifully for the people around us—
for
me
. It is how she was raised. To perform.

I can’t wait to strip her down, see how she looks when she isn’t poised to perfection.

“Please, don’t kill me,” the man whimpers in front of me, breaking me of my salacious thoughts.

“How can you live? What will you do to survive this?” I ask.

“Anything, anything you want,” he pleads. I smell the familiar scent of urine fill the tiny space.

It always happens.
Every. Single. Time.
Such hard-asses until they are threatened, then they piss their pants like babies.

Pathetic
.

“You have nothing I want,” I shrug.

“Maxim…” Dimitri warns. He knows I am on a time crunch and this is just wasting precious minutes.

“Yes, Dimitri, I know,” I agree before I remove my gun from my shoulder holster and pull the trigger, aiming at the man’s forehead.

“Why do you play with them?” Dimitri asks as he motions for the men hanging around the edges of the room to clean the mess up.

“Why not?” I ask with a grin.

“You’re a sick fuck,” he chuckles.

I nod in agreement.

I am.

I am very sick.

He knows exactly how
fucking
sick I truly am.

“Take me to her,” I order.

I do not need to explain who exactly I wish to see.
He knows
. He also knows who I go to see after I do this. It is a routine now.

The building is the same. Artistic and tall—
pretty
, if you are into modern décor. I could give a shit less what it looks like from the outside. Inside is what matters.
She
is in there. I nod at the man taking tickets. I know him. Tickets are not something I need.
I have a season box seat
. I slowly walk toward my box. There are men and women in various states of dress. Some are dressed to perfection, ball gowns and tuxedos, then there are those in simple semi-formal attire. I am in a three-piece suit—
as always.

“She has not made an appearance yet,” Pasha states as I sit down across from him. I nod once to show that I have heard him.

The lights dim and the stage brightens as the orchestra begins to play. This will be her last time on stage. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will never grace a stage again. I should feel guilty for taking this away from her, but I don’t.

Guilt
isn’t something I understand. I have never felt the emotion a day in my life.

My breath hitches when she leaps onto the stage from the side of the curtain. My breath catches every single time my eyes land on her. She is beautiful, like a doll, untouchable and untouched. She smiles brightly at the audience and my dick twitches. My body wants her more than it has ever wanted another woman. It makes me curious.

Why?

Why her?

I shake off the feeling and stand to leave.

“You have only watched a few moments,” Sonia says, wrapping her hand around my forearm.

“I have seen enough. I will see you next weekend,” I offer. She smiles warmly in return.

“She will take your breath away. I already know this,” Sonia grins. I shake my head.

“She already does,” I offer before I turn and leave.

I don’t wait another second. Sonia will try and pry more from me and I do not have any more to give. Haleigh takes my breath away, but I don’t understand it, and I do not understand
why
.

“You’re next stop?” Dimitri asks as I slide into the backseat of the car.

“You know where,” I grunt. I watch as his jaw clenches before he drives.

Dimitri gives me a disapproving look. I counter back with a challenging look of my own. I know he will speak his mind, he always does—
eventually
.

However, he stays quiet as we arrive at our destination, and keep quiet when I leave to take care of my business. Once I am back in the car, Dimitri has lost the ability to keep his mouth shut.

“You do this, Maxim, so close to the time when you will marry the ballerina?” he asks.

“I am man. I do as I wish,” I say, unable to form coherent sentences as something foreign forms in my chest at his words. He is right, but I will never admit it to him.

“I do not approve,” he grumbles, causing me to bark out a harsh laugh.

“Good for me I do not need your approval. You work under me, Dimitri. It would be good of you to remember such things,” I grunt.

I can hear his teeth grinding in the front seat
. I do not care
. He can be pissed off at me all day long; his wishes do not mean shit to me.

Quietly, Dimitri points the car toward my home and we drive. I do not need, nor do I desire, his thoughts on my life. He is under my employ and his opinions are not
accepted
nor are they
acceptable
, unless I specifically request them. He is too comfortable. Yes, he is a friend, but he needs to know his place.

“Maxim,” he calls out as we park in front of my home. I do not respond, but instead wait for him to continue. “You will be good to her, this I know. You are a good man.”

I grunt my response.

I am not a good man.

He should know this.

He has seen the worst sides of me.

I find myself back in my home, in my own bed. I cannot sleep. Six days until this space is no longer solely mine. I walk over to the window and stare out into the darkness. It is quiet—
too quiet
.

I wonder what she is doing in this exact moment.

Perhaps she is sleeping? Perhaps she is tossing and turning? What has her family told her about me?

The questions swirl around in my mind. I take a cigarette out of my nightstand, knowing this will be the last one I will smoke in this room. I would never harm her by smoking near her. I would never
purposely
harm her at all. I will treat her as she should always be treated.

Delicately
.

Like a porcelain doll. A little ornamental piece only to be handled when displayed.

In one week, I will be a married woman. Married to a man I have never even laid eyes on. I sigh as I finish packing my belongings into my dance bag for the evening. I will probably never be back here again. I have already informed the company that this will likely be my last performance. Jacques grins at me from across the dressing room and I find it hard not to roll my eyes at his smugness.

“So, you’re getting married?” a dancer asks. I don’t know her name. Her parts are with the group, nothing solo, and I have not worked with her often.

“I am,” I admit as I finish neatly placing my things in my bag.

“Is he hot?” she asks, wagging her eyebrows at me. It is confusing. I have never talked to this girl before in my life.

“I do not know,” I confess. She stares at me, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“You don’t know?” she asks, repeating my words.

“It is arranged,” I admit. She blinks twice before she opens her mouth again, but I hear a throat clears behind me. Turning, I see that Torrent is at the dressing room entrance.

“Miss Stockhardt,” he nods. I grin.

“Yes, Torrent,” I say, throwing the strap of my bag over my shoulder and taking a step toward him.

“You’re just as freaky as everybody has said,” the girl mumbles beneath her breath behind me.

I don’t respond to her words. I cannot. She is correct. I am sure that I am bizarre in the world’s eyes. I have allowed my parents to choose my spouse for me. I live in America, in New York City for that matter, and I have agreed to an arranged marriage
.

Nothing about me is normal.

Nothing about me has ever been normal.

The Wedding Day

M
Y BLONDE HAIR IS
pulled back,
painfully
, in a low bun. I am used to the pulling, biting pain of my hair being yanked back as bobby pins are stabbed into my scalp though. My makeup is flawless—my skin looks creamy, and my lips are covered with a light pink shimmery gloss.