My mom used to say that the best way to disarm someone is to tell them what they least expect.
I don’t know what I thought the Russian stranger would say, but ‘Be my wife’ certainly was not it.
It takes me a few seconds of staring blankly, caught in a state of shock I can’t shake off. He remains calm, composed. Unrailed.
Ever since I met him this afternoon, he’s been as sturdy as an oak and as still as a statue. Now, I realize why I kind of wanted him to smile earlier, why I waited for it with bated breath. It would’ve humanized him a little, and I was desperately and irrationally looking for some human trait in his robotic features.
Now, though? He seems like some sort of a force. A current. A tyranny that’s about to sweep away everything in its path before changing lanes to something else.
Be my wife.
His words, though calmly spoken, explode in my head like the Fourth of July fireworks. They’re so loud that they drown my own thoughts in a web of nothingness. They’re trapped somewhere beyond reach, in that tiny black box that brings on a shiver whenever I think of it.
The most proper reaction to his ludicrous offer is to actually laugh. But I don’t have the sense of humor for that. And I suspect he wouldn’t take it well if I somehow burst out laughing in front of him.
He’s so serious, it’s etched in his features, his mannerisms, and even the way he speaks—as if he’s never smiled a day in his life.
Like the act of smiling would be offensive to him.
He and the men outside are not normal. I can see that without having to learn who they actually are. It can be tasted in the air. It instantly shifted after they came into the picture.
Dangerous people need to be dealt with using caution, not force, because the second option will only get me hurt.
“Be your wife?” I repeat, my tone low, but it projects the incredulity I feel.
The Russian stranger releases my hips and I scoot to the other side of the car, putting as much distance between us as possible.
The lack of his touch is like losing warmth in the middle of an icy storm. But I’d rather freeze than be burnt to death by him.
“Correct.” He interlocks his fingers in his lap. They’re long and manicured, and I can’t help but stare at the wedding ring on his left hand.
“You’re already married.”
His gaze slides to his ring as if he’s forgotten it’s been there all along. His thick black lashes frame his eyes while he takes a moment, studying it. His expression is weird. When someone thinks about their spouse, they would ordinarily either soften out of adoration or grow grim out of sadness or despair.
He’s doing neither.
His lips thin in a motion that suggests he wants to strangle the ring and the one who slid it on his finger.
Before I can read further into his reaction, his attention glides from his hand to me, and the emotions I thought I saw in his steel eyes vanish as if they never existed. “You’ll pretend to be my wife.”
“Pretend?” I don’t know why I keep asking these questions, entertaining him, but the situation is so surreal, it feels like I’ve been thrust into one of those Christmas tales.
“My wife passed away a few weeks ago, and there’s no one who can perform her duties anymore, so you will be her replacement.”
“Oh.” I don’t mean to say that out loud, but it escapes from me anyway.
I stare at him from a different perspective. At his straight, confident posture, at his choice of dark wardrobe, at his black hair and thick stubble, at the shadows caused by his cheekbones. And, finally, at the dimness in his gray eyes that appear to have been cut from New York’s gloomy sky.
Have I felt uncomfortable around him because of this negative energy he projects? Now that I’ve learned the reason behind that energy is the recent death of his wife, I don’t know how to feel.
Still, the unease is lurking under my skin like a clotted blood vessel, blocking the normal flow of oxygen to my heart.
His hands, although resting on his lap, feel like they’re pushing up against my soul, applying pressure and trying to burst through.
That’s…dangerous. Terrifying, actually.
I might have ended up on the streets, but my instincts are intact and they can at least recognize danger.
This man is the definition of it.
His good looks, strong physique, and effortless confidence don’t fool me. If anything, I view them as his tools of destruction.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I say as calmly as possible. “But I can’t help.”
“I don’t need your insincere apologies. Just do as you are told.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t be your wife.”
“Yes, you can. In fact, you’re the only one who’s able to fit that role.”
“The only one? Have you seen me?”
He taps his fingers against his thighs as his gaze slides from my face to my torso and down to my foot that’s missing a shoe. I’m the one who asked if he’s seen me, but now that I’m trapped under his scrutiny, the sense of inferiority from this afternoon grips me again.
He must be seeing a monster, a smelly one at that, and while I rarely feel self-conscious about my lifestyle, I do now. The unwelcome sensation slams into me with a harshness that robs me of breath.
I begin to squirm, but stop myself.
“I do see you.” He speaks slowly, almost like he has a different meaning behind the words. The tapping of his fingers comes to a halt. “Clearly.”
“Then…you must see I’m not fit to be anyone’s wife.” Let alone his.
He reaches into his coat pocket and I expect him to pull a gun out and shoot me in the face for wasting his time. However, he retrieves a black leather wallet, opens it, and slides a picture out.
A small gasp leaves my lips as I stare at the woman in it. It’s a solo shot of her in a wedding dress. Her dark brown hair is gathered in an elegant bun, revealing her delicate throat. The dress’s neckline falls off her shoulders, accentuating their curves and her collarbone.
Her nose is petite, and the contour of her face is defined while remaining soft. Light makeup covers her fair skin, enhancing her quiet beauty. Her full lips are painted in a nude color and her eyeshadow is a similar shade.
Her eyes are a turquoise so blue, it’s like she’s peering into my soul and waiting for it to peer right back.
A small smile pulls at her mouth. It’s a mysterious one, almost like she doesn’t want to smile, or perhaps she has a different purpose behind it.
But her beauty and elegance aren’t the reason for my trembling fingers.
It’s all of her.
I’m staring at a dark-haired, clean, and well-groomed version of myself. I barely remember the last time I was as clean as she is, but I do remember my reflection in the mirror at the hospital a few weeks ago, and I definitely looked like this woman, only with blonde hair.
“That’s why it has to be you.”
I startle at the stranger’s voice. While I was lost in his wife’s picture, I just about forgot that he was there all along.
“But how…?”
“How?” he repeats with a slight furrow in his brow.
“How is this possible? I was an only child, so she…” I chance another look at her. “She can’t be my twin or my sister.”
“She isn’t related to you by blood.”
“Then…how do you explain the resemblance?” Scary one, at that. She even has my freaking eye color that I’ve always thought was rare as hell.
“Do you believe in doppelgängers, Winter?”
“Doppelgängers?” I scoff. “Are you joking?”
“Do I look like the type who jokes?” The authoritativeness in his tone causes me to glue myself to the closed car door. Shit. He really is terrifying.
“N-no.”
“Correct.”
“Are you saying she and I are doppelgängers? How is that possible?”
“It’s more common than you think.”
“I still…don’t believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s already happening.”
“Already happening?”
“Yes. You will be my wife.”
“No. I didn’t agree to this.”
“Didn’t agree to this,” he muses, as if my words are somehow comical. “You believe you have that option? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I inch farther into the door until the handle digs into my side. “I’m a free person.”
“Free? How do you define freedom? Is it sleeping in parking garages and begging for food?”
“The way I live is none of your business.”
“Don’t talk back to me again or you won’t like the way I react.” He’s so calm in issuing his threat, but that doesn’t diminish its impact. I wish I could become one with the floorboard or the door—I’m not picky.
He stares at me for a beat too long, making sure his words hit their mark, before he continues, “You’ll have a roof over your head, a warm bed to sleep in, and hot meals all day long.”
The picture he’s painting is tempting, but he is not. He’s far from tempting. He’s so frightening that even sitting beside him is giving me a sense of anxiety. I feel like I need to be in fight-or-flight mode around him. Actually, I’ll have to go with flight because the fight option will definitely get me killed.
So while I do want all the things he listed, their price—being with him—isn’t something I can afford to pay.
I need to find a way out of this.
“If you’re still not convinced, fine.”
My head snaps up to meet his blank gaze. “You’re letting me go?”
“If you wish.”
I narrow my eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, but the police are on standby a few blocks away. As soon as you leave this car, you’ll be arrested for the murder of Richard Green.”
I gasp. How…how the hell does he know about that?
“I blocked the police and media from divulging your name and picture, but if you’d rather live on the streets, then you won’t mind prison. You should thank me, really. They at least give you meals there.”
I can feel the car closing in on me, its seats turning into octopus tentacles to choke me.
He’s planned everything from the murder to the police to how they never mentioned any detail about me. But he’s been playing his cards, one by each one in a methodical, psychopathic way. He never planned to give me any choice to begin with. He came here with the purpose of turning me into his wife, and I can do nothing to escape this fate.
“Why…” I swallow the tears and the clog in my throat. “Why didn’t you use that threat from the beginning? Why did you give me hope that I could refuse this?”
“It wasn’t my intention to give you hope. And you couldn’t have refused me, Winter. You’re a nobody. A pest everyone stomps on without looking twice. A nameless, forgettable face no one remembers down the line. Be grateful that I’m giving you this offer. Say thank you and go with it.”
I raise my hand and slap him across the face so hard, pain bursts over my palm and shoots down my arm.
A weird type of anger took hold of me at his words, and I needed to relieve it somewhere. This is the only solution my brain came up with.
One that I now realize could cost me my life.
The stranger’s eyes darken and a muscle tics under his stubbled jaw.
I fully expect him to strike—or punch—me back, and I squeeze my trembling lips together in preparation for the impact.
However, his hand loops around my nape and he hauls me over so that my face is mere inches away from his. “The last person who dared to touch me is now buried six feet under.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat. His words alone are suffocating me and digging my grave. I would’ve preferred he hit me instead.
“This is the first and last time you do that. Repeat it and you’ll meet a worse fate than being buried in a grave.”
He releases me with a shove and I stumble back toward the door, my heart beating so loud, I can hear the buzzing in my ears.
“What are you going to do with me?” My voice is small, fearful.
“Whatever I wish.”
My teeth chatter for a different reason than the cold weather, but I can’t resist the feral need to ask the question, “Are you going to hurt me?”
His attention fixes on me, his eyes turning ashen, blank. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you’re good at following orders.”
I stare up at him with another swallow. I’m not, I’m really not. But I need to start to be, because I don’t want to give this man a reason to hurt me.
Not that he’d need one.
“You’ll be cleaned up before you come to my house.” He gives me a condescending glance, cementing the fact that he does indeed think of me as a pest.
“When will that be?”
“Now.”
“N-now?”
“You have an objection?”
I shake my head once. I want to see Larry again, but that will probably put him in danger with these men, so I opt not to do it. I’ll have opportunities to come see him once I’m…someone else.
That realization hits me deeper than I would’ve anticipated.
I’m going to live as someone else.
I won’t be Winter Cavanaugh anymore.
My thoughts are reinforced when the Russian says, “From now on, you’re Lia Volkov. Wife of Adrian Volkov.”
