20

Tiana

To say I’m overwhelmed is the understatement of the year.

Holy crap. Misha arranged for me to marry Armani? I can’t believe it.

There are so many thoughts whirling in my head it’s hard to focus on anything for long. It feels like I’m stuck in a daze.

After Armani looked at my back, he was so angry it scared the shit out of me. It’s freaking terrifying how he can go from being a perfect gentleman to a lethal mafioso in a split second.

But no matter how scary he is, he came to help me when I needed him, and not once has he yanked me around like I’m nothing but a rag doll.

As I walk up the steps of St. Monarch’s with my hand firmly in Armani’s grasp, I worry about what will happen.

“I need to call Misha,” I say.

“I’ve left messages for him. Once he gets them, he’ll come back,” Armani informs me.

We pause so Armani can hand his weapon to the guard because no guests are allowed to be armed on the premises.

Alek emerges from the dining hall, and surprise flickers over his face when he sees me. “This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

He gives me a quick hug, then exchanges a questioning look with Armani.

“Your father arranged a marriage for Tiana, so I went to get her,” Armani sums up the crazy week I’ve had.

A dark frown forms on Alek’s forehead. His eyes swing from Armani to me. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to cause more trouble between you and your father.

Things are strained as is,” I answer.

Alek shakes his head at me. “Nothing you do can make things worse between my father and me. You should’ve called me, Tiana.”

Alek only calls me by my name if he’s upset. My stomach sinks because it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never the right thing.

“She’s had a rough night, Alek. Ease up on her,” Armani says with a tone of warning lacing the words.

The two men lock eyes, and for a moment, I worry there will be a fight, but luckily Alek doesn’t push things. “I’ll let you handle things, brother. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

Alek gives my shoulder a squeeze, then walks off. My eyes follow him until he disappears up the stairs.

Armani tugs at my hand to bring my attention back to him. “Let’s go to the infirmary so the doctor can look at your back.”

I’d much rather shower and crawl into bed, but I follow Armani down a hallway.

I was nervous in Armani’s presence before I learned about the arrangement between him and Misha. Now I’m an anxious mess.

I’m highly conscious of his strong fingers that are wrapped around mine. His body moves with predatory grace, but I’m starting to get the feeling it’s all a mask to hide the mafioso who won’t hesitate to maim and kill whoever gets on the wrong side of him.

Entering the infirmary, Amani addresses the doctor. “Examine Miss Petrov’s back.” His eyes flick to my face. “Is there anywhere else the doctor should look?”

I’m about to shake my head when I remember the tumbler incident. “It’s probably nothing, but a glass was thrown at my head.” Extreme self- consciousness and shame engulf me as I say the humiliating words.

In a heartbeat Armani’s features darken, changing him from calm to looking like a killer with an unquenchable thirst for blood and violence.

Dear God.

My body shrinks beneath his vicious gaze while my heartbeat and breaths speed up.

Until now, Armani has treated me with respect, but seeing this aggressive side of him makes me wonder whether he’s just like any other man in the bratva and mafia.

Once again, he reins his temper in, and his features relax, but his voice has a biting edge to it as he says, “Check Miss Petrov’s head as well.”

The doctor gestures for me to take a seat on one of the empty beds. “Let’s take a look at your head,” the doctor says.

I point out where the bump is and lower my eyes while he inspects it. “There’s a small cut. I’ll clean it, but I don’t think the injury is serious.”

The doctor looks at Armani. “Just keep an eye on her for the next twenty- four hours. She might have a concussion. If she starts to vomit or experience severe headaches, bring her back to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Turn so I can check your back,” the doctor instructs.

I do as I’m told, and when he lifts my top, I help to hold the fabric in place.

Armani takes a sharp breath, and I can feel his eyes burning on my skin. “It looks worse than before.”

“Please remove your shirt,” the doctor asks.

Feeling shy as hell, I pull the fabric over my head and cover my front with it. The doctor’s fingers probe my back, and he smears something over the welts.

I clench my teeth when my skin burns from all the touching. “Do you experience any pain when you breathe?” he asks. “No, Doctor.”

“Any pain in your neck?” “No.”

He presses on a couple of spots, checking if it causes me discomfort, then says, “Just apply the ointment after every bath. I’ll give you something for pain.”

I want to tell him it’s not necessary but keep quiet. “You can put your shirt on, Miss Petrov.”

I quickly pull the top over my head and cover myself. When I turn around, Armani looks like he’s about to kill someone.

When his eyes lock with mine, he visibly calms down again. It amazes me how much control he has over his emotions. I wish it were that easy for me.

While waiting for the doctor to bring the painkillers and ointment, I get lost in my thoughts, worrying about how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into. A sore back and a bump on my head are the least of my worries.