Ruthless Saint

VIII

MIKA MALIKOV

The sun was peeking over the horizon when I awoke. Hues of pink and pale-yellow coloring the clouds and becoming brighter with each blink I took.

I could feel the warmth of the sun slowly creeping on my face as the rays spilled across the cloud.

I glanced around the aisle in search of my husband, but he'd disappeared again.

The last thing I remembered was falling asleep to his rough voice murmuring Russian as he spoke on the phone. We hadn't talked after our last conversation, and I didn't think I wanted to say another word ever again to the man.

The only way I would survive this marriage was by staying far away from him.

I knew he didn't have a heart, but it made me woozy to watch him switch so easily from holding me in my time of comfort to discussing the disposal of a man.

He'd killed a man because he couldn't do his job according to his expectations. It made me terrified to imagine what he could do to me.

Mischa walked down the aisle in a different suit than the one he'd been wearing last night. His black hair that'd been gelled back was now wild like he'd ran his hands through it multiple times.

        His expression was different than the one he had when he'd calmed me down with a stroke of his hand, but I couldn't deny he was utterly gorgeous.

Those dark grey eyes captured me. "You're awake."

I answered his greeting with a nod.

He seemed amused at my lack of words.

        His gaze skimmed down my exposed thighs before settling on my face. "Come here."

I huffed under my breath like an impudent child but did it anyways. I was starting to wonder if this man had a fetish on ordering people to come to him.

I kept my distance as I came to stand in front of him, his tall body completely towering over me making me feel small and feminine.

        His gaze was like a lit Zippo flame, burning me from the inside. Slowly, he skimmed down my body pursuing my legs before turning his focus back to my face. "You pack any other clothes than these?"

"I have some dresses." My luggage was mostly filled with expensive purses, perfume and shoes. I didn't pack many clothes except my shorts, a couple of oversized tees and one or two dresses.

He rubbed a hand against his stubble in thought. "How short are these dresses?"

"Long enough."

A muscle ticked in his jaw at my response, and I could see the imprint of a vein coming through the skin of his neck.

        "Come on," He muttered and led me out of the jet.

He didn't hold my hand like he did last time as he escorted me off the tarmac, walking slight ahead with each long drag of his Berluti's.

        I didn't know whether or not he was mad at me for my luggage choice and if he was, I wondered why he didn't say anything.

My mamma had taught me to learn to please my future husband in any way possible but when it came to Mischa, I didn't know the first thing about him.

The only thing he seemed to take pleasure in was the damn cigarette he was always holding.

I almost stumbled over the tarmac with the soft slippers I was wearing, obviously not compatible with the floor. Rough hands caught me before I made contact with the ground, pulling me upright. Just as quickly as the touch appeared, it disappeared in a warm heat of leather shoes and intoxicating smoke.