Taking Meghan: Disciples 5

by Sweet, Izzy

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, awareness and horror slowly begin to creep in.

  If the reflection staring back at me is true, I’ve been gowned in a snow-white wedding dress, and I can’t remember how it happened.

  Have I been drugged? Or is this another nightmare to torment me?

  Even now the edges of my vision is hazy and my movements are slow. Too slow. My thoughts struggle to surface, to breathe, as if I’ve been held underwater for too long.

  Blinking my eyes, I reach out and touch the mirror in front of me, hoping my reflection will change. That I’ve somehow become Alice and fallen down the rabbit hole. But everything remains the same. Only the expression on my painted face changes. Shifting from a look of confusion to one resembling anger.

  I push at the mirror, half-expecting my fingers to go through it, but it’s solid.

  “Those… bastards…” I softly mutter, my words coming out slightly slurred.

  Someone must have spiked me with something this morning… Someone who wanted my compliance guaranteed.

  I strain my brain, trying in vain to pull up the moment it happened, but it’s a wasted effort. It doesn’t matter when it happened, just that it happened period.

  Reaching down, I tug at the bodice of my dress. It’s uncomfortably tight and constricting. Vaguely, I can remember women speaking in Russian as they prodded, poked, and pulled on me, treating me like their doll.

  My dark hair has been curled, swept up, and pinned. My makeup artfully done. Jewels glitter around my throat and dangle from ears. My arms are covered up to my elbows in silky gloves.

  I’ve been molded into a beautiful bride.

  And yet, I can only faintly remember bits and pieces of this being done.

  Giving up on the tight bodice, I drop my hand and shake my head, trying to clear it. The sharp, sudden movement though only causes a wave of intense dizziness to sweep over me.

  Jesus, whatever they gave me is strong.

  Looking to the mirror again, I focus on my reflection as I wait for the dizziness to pass. When it finally does, I decide it’s time to get the hell out of here while I still can.

  Turning away from the mirror takes more effort than it should. Another wave of dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, so I take it very slow. Like I’m outside, watching my body struggling without me, I carefully put one foot in front of the other and make my way to the door.

  Hand reaching out, my fingers brush across the knob when it suddenly turns. My reactions still delayed, my hand lingers in the air as the door swings open.

  “Ah, there you are,” Alexei says as he suddenly appears in front of me.

  An apparition from my deepest, darkest nightmares.

  Like a trapped bird, my heart flutters behind my ribs, and my feet itch with the need to escape his presence. To run and run and run.

  The things I’ve learned about this man have haunted and tormented me since the announcement of our engagement.

  I discovered he’s not your typical Russian kingpin. No, he’s so much worse than that. He’s a monster, even in the eyes of the criminal underworld.

  His deeds go far beyond kidnapping, extortion, and even murder. Go far beyond what’s considered beyond the pale even in our circles.

  He deals in the selling and exploitation of young women and children.

  Most of his empire has been built on the success of his human trafficking operation. Built on the success of selling little boys and little girls to the highest bidder.

  It makes me sick. So fucking sick and scared.

  He has no soul. No heart. I doubt he’s even human.

  Standing in the doorway, Alexei’s black eyes sweep slowly over me, appraising me with keen interest. My eyes are much slower to move over him, and when they do, when I finally see what he’s wearing, I feel like I’m going to puke.

  He’s dressed in a sharp black tux that’s been tailored to fit his body perfectly.

  Oh god, maybe we’re already married…

  Hand finally dropping, it bounces against my skirt in defeat.

  He takes a step into the room, and I nearly fall on my ass as I take a stumbling step back.

  Closing the door behind him, his body blocks off the exit.

  “Going somewhere?” he asks, his eyes hardening.

  If he wasn’t so damn big, and if I wasn’t so damn clumsy and slow from being drugged, I might be able to get around him. But as it is, I’m fucking trapped.

  I briefly consider trying my luck anyway, but the last thing I need right now is to force a physical confrontation with him. He’s got at least six inches on me, and probably a hundred pounds of pure muscle. No, it would be better if I wait for a better opportunity… like when the drugs wear off and I actually stand a chance.

  What I really need right now is to know if we’re married. Because if we are… fuck…

  I might as well be a dead woman walking.

  Going out on a limb, I manage to slur out, “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”

  His lips curve into a sharp smirk and I find myself holding my breath as I await his answer.

  “You know this ceremony is merely a formality. A show for the families,” he says dismissively, taking another step toward me. “I already own you, Meghan.”

  Any relief I might have felt to learn that we’re not already married is immediately crushed beneath the weight of his statement.

  At first, I want to balk, to protest. He doesn’t own me. I’m not a fucking object, I’m a person. I can’t be bought, sold, or traded.

  But isn’t that exactly what my father did? He traded me to Alexei in exchange for the Russian’s protection.

  I’ve been reduced to a fucking bargaining chip.

  “What did you drug me with?” I ask as he continues to approach me, eating up the distance between us.

  I’m hoping my question will trip him up, or at least stall him. If he touches me or even breathes on me, I don’t think I could take it.

  Despite his handsome face, everything about him repulses and unnerves me. When I look at him, my skin crawls and my stomach clenches. I don’t see his perfect bone structure or his soft, pouty lips.

  All I see is the cold, dead space inside his eyes that’s utterly inhuman.

  My little ploy seems to work because he pauses for a moment, as if he’s thinking, before saying, “We were forced to administer a mild sedative when you became hysterical.”

  “Hysterical?” I repeat, my voice thick with disbelief.

  When have I ever been hysterical? I don’t think I’ve ever been hysterical at any point in my life. In fact, I believe I’ve held up pretty fucking well given all the shit that’s happened to me lately.

  “Yes… hysterical…” he drawls out, as if he wants those two words to really sink in. Then his eyes suddenly gleam with a strange light as he continues. “You were quite distraught over poor Callum.”

  Poor Callum?

  “Why would I be distraught…”

  My brain jumps in to answer the question for me before I even finish the sentence.

  Flashes of blood and gore flood my mind as the memory comes pouring back in. The smoking gun in Alexei’s hand. Callum sprawled on the floor with half of his skull blown out. His once beautiful hazel eyes that sparkled with life, empty of light and staring up at me accusingly.

  Callum is… was… my father’s youngest enforcer. He was so eager to please, and as loyal as a damn puppy. I always knew he harbored feelings for me. I even messed around with him for a bit before I went off to find myself at university.

  Fuck. I tried to use Callum to help me get away and Alexei killed him.

  “Oh god,” I mumble, and sway on my feet, my white skirt swishing around me.

  This nightmare is too damn real.

  “Meghan,” Alexei says, sounding a little bit alarmed.

  Before I can fall to the floor, his arms are around me, catching me and pulling me close.

  H
is touch, his hold only increases my distress. I try to push him away, but I just don’t have the strength to do it.

  His arms tighten. “Don’t fret, my dear. It’s all done and over with.”

  Don’t fret? Don’t fret?! A man is dead because I tried to use him. A man I was friends with is dead because Alexei killed him.

  Leaning as far back in Alexei’s hold as I possibly can, I glare up at him accusingly. “You… you didn’t have to kill him!”

  Alexei’s face hardens as he stares down at me. His eyes are so dark, so cold, they’re practically glinting like black glass.

  “Of course I had to kill him. He tried to take what’s mine.”

  Any normal girl would probably be cowed by the look on his face, or at least have the sense not to push a murderer when he’s holding her trapped in his arms.

  But I’m obviously not a normal girl. I’m not a very smart girl, either, for that matter.

  Because I open my mouth and tell him, “But it wasn’t his fault… I tricked him into helping me. He didn’t deserve to die, Alexei. If anyone deserves to die for betraying you, it’s me.”

  Alexei just stares at me. He stares at me for so damn long, it goes beyond creepy. The air seems to chill around us, his cold expression sucking all the warmth out of the room, and I have plenty of time to wonder if I just played my last hand.

  He could kill me right now and no one would stop him. I have no protection. No one to help. No one to come to my rescue. Now, I don’t even have my father. I’ve been abandoned for the good of the family. We haven’t even spoken any vows yet, but I’m completely and utterly at Alexei’s mercy.

  He can do anything and everything he wants to do to me.

  But maybe it would be a mercy if he killed me right now, before we walk down the aisle. Then I wouldn’t have to endure our wedding night. I wouldn’t have to endure him forcing me to consummate this marriage.

  But I don’t want to die, dammit. I want to live. As stupid as I am, I’m not ready to give up yet.

  “Meghan,” Alexei finally says after what feels like an eternity. “I think you’re still suffering from some hysteria. Perhaps another sedative is in order?”

  What the fuck? Seriously? He’s giving me an out instead of punishing me for my admission?

  What’s up with this guy? And why is he showing me, of all people, mercy? Sure, I’m his bride-to-be, but this is an arranged political marriage. He’s not necessarily marrying me because he actually wants to marry me. He’s marrying me for the benefits. He could easily use this as an opportunity to get rid of me and still have his alliance with the Irish.

  So why isn’t he?

  I just stare at him in confusion, unable to make sense of him. Then he releases one hand from me and reaches into his tux pocket.

  “No!” I blurt out and grab his wrist, fearing he’s reaching for that sedative.

  If he drugs me again there’s no way I’m going to have the mental capacity to escape if the opportunity presents itself.

  When he arches a brow at me, I realize my mistake.

  Softening my voice, I immediately release his hand and hope my impulsive reaction doesn’t cost me my life. “I’m sorry, I mean no more sedative. I’m fine, really. Any more and I might fall asleep. Any more and I’ll be too groggy to say my vows…”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes narrowing with what could be suspicion, but what could also be taken as skepticism.

  “I’m sure.” I bob my head maybe a little too enthusiastically. “The moment has passed. It won’t happen again.”

  I swear at first he looks like he doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe me either.

  But something, I don’t know what, must change his mind because his expression softens. “Very well.”

  I’m still so out of whack, I almost say whew out loud. Seriously, I feel like I literally just dodged a bullet.

  Then he grabs my hand, the one that grabbed his wrist, and wraps his fingers around me. His grip isn’t harsh, but it might as well be given how much I loathe his touch. I have to stop myself from yanking my hand back as he pulls it up, close to his mouth.

  At first, I’m afraid he’s going to maul me, or do something else awful, like bite my fingers off one by one.

  But then his lips brush gently, slowly, almost tenderly, across my knuckles, and my skin wants to crawl right off my bones.

  Eyes locking on mine, his grip suddenly tightens painfully around my hand as he keeps it poised close to his mouth.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out as he says, “If you feel it coming on again, zaika, you must let me know. Because nothing in this world, and I mean nothing, will stop me from protecting you and keeping you safe.”

  Grip suddenly loosening, his head dips and his lips brush once more across my knuckles as if he’s trying to soothe the pain he created.

  Then he looks up and flashes a smile so chilling my blood runs cold. “Even if I have to protect you from yourself.”

  Alexei’s words sink into me with the pain, filling me with apprehension and dread.

  What the hell is going on here? And what the hell does he mean by that? He’s sounding more and more like a possessive groom instead of a man who looks at me simply as an object or obligation.

  Does he want this marriage for more than political reasons?

  A knock on the door pulls Alexei’s attention away from me.

  “Yes?” he calls out, a look of annoyance passing over his sharp features as he lowers my hand and keeps it trapped in his.

  Every frantic beat of my heart seems to purge the lingering effects of his sedative out of my system. I’m almost completely sober now, and I don’t know what’s worse, being drugged against my will or having to face all this shit fully aware of what’s happening.

  “It’s almost time, sir,” an unfamiliar Russian voice answers on the other side of the door. “The priest would like you to take your place now.”

  “Ah, very good,” Alexei says, the corners of his lips pulling up as his attention returns to me.

  His eyes gleam with smug pleasure, and I have the sudden, almost irresistible urge to yank my hand out of his grip. I want to yank it out and slap that smug look right off his pretty face.

  But before I can, his grip tightens, and he uses my hand to pull me into him.

  Breasts meet chest and hips meet hips.

  I start to push away, unable to bear being so close to him, when his lips fall upon mine.

  His kiss is cold, so damn cold.

  I freeze in place, chilled to the bone.

  I endure his touch, the sensation of his cold, dead lips moving over mine, and try my best not to throw up in my mouth.

  Is this what I must endure for the rest of my life?

  I don’t kiss him back. I don’t try to reciprocate in any way, but Alexei doesn’t seem to mind. He just takes and takes.

  His mouth pulls and pulls.

  The kiss stretches on and on, trapping me in my own personal hell.

  When he finally breaks away, his hand comes up, cupping my cheek tenderly as he breathes hard.

  “We’ll finish this after the ceremony,” he says ominously.

  I rather light myself on fire.

  Alexei stares at me for another moment as if he expects me to say something.

  I just stare back at him, trying to come to terms with the dawning horror that my earlier suspicion was correct.

  He wants me, and not only for the alliance.

  3

  Meghan

  Alexei forces another kiss on me before leaving the room.

  Once the lock clicks in place behind him, my hands go to the bodice of my dress, tugging and tearing in desperation to free myself from it. As if shedding it could change my fate or what I am.

  Only the sound of the lock turning again stops me from trying to gnaw the damn thing off with my teeth.

  I freeze in place as the door swings open, fearing it’s Alexei returning to to
rment me some more.

  My father appears in the doorway, a grim shadow of the man I’ve known all my life. I swear, in the past two weeks, ever since he informed me of the arrangement, he’s aged twenty years.

  I almost feel a pang of sympathy for him. Almost.

  Then he informs me, “It’s time, Meghan.”

  Any sympathy I was feeling for him immediately evaporates in a cloud of anger.

  “No,” I say firmly while straightening to my full height and throwing my shoulders back.

  Alexei may scare the bejesus out of me, but my father is an entirely different matter. He doesn’t frighten me in the least, and standing up to him might be my ticket out of this mess.

  “Meghan…” my father sighs, and instantly a dozen more wrinkles that weren’t there a moment ago line his face.

  “No,” I repeat, my hands clenching into fists. “I won’t marry him. You have to call this off. I won’t fucking do it.”

  Before I even get a chance to finish my refusal, my father makes a motion with his hand, frowning like he expected this.

  A big, beefy thug suited up in all black steps around him and begins to approach me. The thug is no one I recognize, so he must be Russian.

  Another Russian to deal with me. What the fuck happened to my fellow Irish?

  “Don’t make me do this, Meghan, love,” my father says as I back away from the thug, throwing my hands up. “Come along nice and peaceful now, and let’s have us a lovely wedding.”

  “If you want the wedding so bad, why don’t you marry him?” I spit back as my spine hits the wall.

  “Would if I could,” my father mutters under his breath just as the thug grabs me roughly by the arm.

  I try to shake the thug off, and his fingers bite down, digging into bone.

  A whimper of pain and anger escapes my mouth, and I lash out, kicking the thug hard in the shin.

  The kick doesn’t faze him one bit.

  “Now, now, Igor, gentle now. She’s my daughter,” my father says with reproach.

  Igor’s grip immediately loosens.

  Igor… of course the thug’s name is Igor. Fucker looks like an Igor, I think as I try to yank my arm back.

  “Sorry, boss,” Igor says, his Russian accent grating on me.