Page 92 of Twisted Prince
Pyotr studies Gleb for a long moment, his frown turning into something closer to a scowl. “I don’t think you should risk being on your own. At least not right now,” he states, at last, turning his eyes back to me. “Your fiancé might send someone after you again.”
I nod. “If I had family to turn to, I would reach out and ask for help, but…”
Pyotr shakes his head. “Mel, we are your family. Don’t you know that by now?”
Unexpected tears sting my eyes at the adamance in his tone. “Thank you,” I murmur, nearly choking on my emotion. “But I can’t burden your family with my problems. You’ve already done so much for me, and you have enough troubles as it is, what with Mikhail and trying to rebuild…”
Nodding, Pyotr’s expression shifts to thoughtful as his gaze turns toward Silvia. “I agree that you can’t stay here.”
And though I know that’s basically what I just said, I can’t help the ridiculous sting of rejection, the sudden sense of abandonment. We drove all this way, completely turned my life and Gabby’s on its head, only to have nowhere to go.
“This house wouldn’t be any safer for you or Gabby,” Pyotr continues, immediately assuaging that feeling of rejection. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, but Mikhail is unpredictable, and the Veles just don’t have the strength of numbers we used to. I can’t guarantee your safety like I once could. I keep trying to convince Silvia she might be better off taking the kids and going back to Chicago to stay with her brother for a while?—”
“And I keep telling you we’re a family. We stick together,” Silvia cuts in.
It’s clearly been an ongoing argument. And I love that this is the kind of thing two people in love can disagree over—whether safety or being together is more important.
“I know, sokrovishche,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Silvia’s forehead and silencing her with it.
When his eyes turn back to me, his expression is a nerve-racking blend of foreboding and compassionate. “After everything Gleb has told me about the Kellys and this Irishman you’ve been tangled up with,” Pyotr says, “I think the best way to keep you safe is for you to marry.”
I can’t help the burst of incredulous laughter that leaves my lips, and from the corner of my eye, I see Gleb stiffen. Clearly, he wasn’t imagining that would be the kind of help Pyotr would suggest either.
“From what I understand,” Pyotr reasons, “the Kellys are devoutly Catholic—or at least, in their own way.”
I nod, thinking back to what I know about Mr. Kelly, his affinity for helping single mothers, and the information I gathered from the girls over my years of working at Pearl’s. He’s not wrong.
“They would consider marriage a binding contract in the eyes of god, right?” Pyotr continues.
My mind shifts to the conversation I had with Kieri just the other night, the warning she gave me that marriage to a Kelly was for life. My stomach knots painfully, and again, I nod.
“So if this Vincent Kelly learns you belong to someone else, he’s more likely to give up the hunt. Especially now that you’re hundreds of miles away, and he would have to spare the men to come search for you in a city as big as New York. So, we can spread the word about your nuptials in Boston before he tries to come looking for you again.”
“But, Pyotr, I can’t get married just to try to avoid my last rash agreement to marry someone,” I counter, even if the plan sounds more effective than anything I’ve come up with. “Besides, no one would agree to marry me anyhow, just to keep me out of the hands of a crazed Irish mafia member. They’d have to have a death wish.”
Pyotr’s eyebrow raises at my adamant objection, and without a hint of humor, he states, “Gleb will.”
It feels as though he’s launched a bolt of electricity through my chest, and I look at Gleb in utter disbelief that his boss would even suggest such a ludicrous idea. Gleb was the one who just said in the car that it would be best if we went our separate ways. I can’t ask him to marry me now. Not when he clearly wants space.
My heart stutters at the intensity of his green-eyed gaze, the war of emotions that wage behind the calm mask of his face. Then, to my astonishment, he gives a curt nod. It’s the only acknowledgment he gives, but it’s his way of saying he’ll marry me.
Not that he wants to.
But once again, Gleb is willing to do what it takes to keep me safe.
Even if it means sacrificing his own wants and needs.
“Good. It’s decided then,” Pyotr states. “We’ll take you to the courthouse today. Besides, I don’t think there’s a safer place for you to stay than with Gleb.”
Oh god, I’ll be living with him?
I mean, of course, I would if I’m his wife—even if it’s just to get Vinny off my back.
But just the thought of it makes my heart pound forcefully against my ribs.
Gabby must feel the frantic beat because she turns in my lap to look at me with solemn concern.
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