Capítulo 20: I Hate You

(SERGIO)

Later that afternoon, I hear yelling all the way to my office.

I instantly know who's causing the trouble. Jesus! This girl.

Grinding my teeth together, I rise from my chair and tug on my jacket. I had avoided her all day, knowing that I'd have to deal with her after she chose the dress. But I can't have her getting into Ophelia's nerves. She is an old friend.

A steady flow of Russian curses echo down to the corridor. Ophelia has a short fuse and a foul mouth. Perhaps that's the reason why I liked her so much.

I head into the ballroom and find the two women facing off near the row of dresses and Ophelia is cursing Ivanna's ancestors. I don't allow myself to look at Ivanna. "Hey there, Ophelia," I call. "What's the matter?"

The lithe dark-haired designer turns around. "God! This girl! I can't stand her. She has no fashion sense. She is turning up her nose at every dress. My dresses!"

I kiss her cheeks. "But that's the reason I brought you. Because you have the best taste, and we must teach her what it means to be a Sakharov, right?"

"What are you two saying?" Ivanna snaps, her Russian not good enough to keep up with us. But that is probably for the best. Because Ophelia's language tends to be colorful at times.

"We are saying," Ophelia hisses in English, "that you have zero fashion sense and you are a pain in the ass."

Ivanna gasps. Her creamy skin flushes. "All I said was I didn't want to wear white!"

Ophelia gestures to me and makes a noise as if to say, see?

"But I see a few ivory dresses." I point out. "Maybe you should try those on."

"No. I want a black one. Or better yet, a red one." She juts her chin stubbornly. This is the spoilt mafia princess. Malishka. Misha had clearly allowed her too much freedom and ended up spoiling her.

That has to stop. Now.

I look at Ophelia. "I need a word with Miss Sidorova. Would you mind taking your assistants to the kitchen? Lucia will get you a coffee and some biscuits."

"Of course, Sakharov." Ophelia heards out her team out of the ballroom. Maksim disappears too.

Then we are alone.

I stroll to the dresses, examining them closely. Ophelia is the most sought-after dress designer in Tyva. Each of her gowns are unique. Each of the four racks have about fifteen dresses. Plenty for Ivanna to choose from.

"I thought we had a deal." I say as I continue to shift through the gowns.

"Yes. You said I'm allowed to choose my own dress."

"No. I said you had to choose a suitable dress. No member of the Sakharov family will wear a red or a black dress to the wedding."

"Then maybe I shouldn't become a member of the Sakharov family."

I drop the gown on my hand and advance on her, the soles of my shoes slapping angrily on the wooden floor. She begins to back away from me, but it's a little too late. Yes, I admire her spirit, and it turns me on, well, for the most part. But there are times that she needs to stop being too stubborn and obey orders. This is one of those times.

Fear flashes in her eyes when her back hits the wall. I keep advancing, closing the distance between us until I crowd her into the plaster. She looks up at me, pulse beating at the base of her throat. Her chest rises and falls quickly. She is wearing one of those little strapless sundresses, and I'm proud that I keep my eyes trained on her face, not drifting to the bare skin on display.

I brace my hands on either side of her head and lean in, my body covering hers. "Do you know what happens to those who disobey me?"

She lifts her chin. "Karlen won't let you hurt me."

I sneer. "What? You think you can use my own son as a shield against me? I am the head, the ruler of this family. Karlen answers me. I do whatever I wish whenever I wish. You should be wiser than this, Ivanna, don't cross me."

"Stop threatening me. If you are going to kill me, then you might as well go ahead with it already. You will be doing me a huge favor by putting me out of my misery."

"Kill you? No. I wouldn't make it that easy for you. I will just marry you off to some other member of the Dvina Vory instead. There are so many old men there who'd love to break into a new bride."

"You wouldn't dare. My father―"

"Your father what? Misha isn't here to coddle you. He gave you to me in exchange for a debt that he owes me. It is in my favor that you are marrying my son and bearing future generations of the Sakharovs." The desire to touch her overrules my good sense. I drag a finger tip across her soft chin, not stepping until I caress her jaw. "Spit on that favor and I will find you another husband. And I can guarantee that you won't like him half as well as you like my son."

She licks her lips and stares at me with an unreadable expression on his face. "I don't want to marry anybody."

"Too bad, Malishka. Because you will sure become a bride. The choice of the husband however, is on you."

We stare at each other for abbot. It is then that I gather that she smells like olives. Sun and plants. Her scent sinks into me like an aphrodisiac, booming the simmering lust that I already have for this fierce spirited girl.

I want to fuck her outside in the rain, in the dirt surrounded with grape vines, her silken hair spread all over the ground like roots while I coat her in my cum.

She must sense the shift in my thoughts because her lips part in a swift intake of breath. Her gaze darts to my lips and for one crazy moment, I wonder if she is thinking what it would be like to kiss me. God! How I want that. I want to taste her. I want to feel her plush pout lips on mine. Drink her sighs. Swallow every last one of her whimpers. I want to inhale her.

I push myself away from the wall, disgusted with my thoughts of her. I spin and try to recollect myself as I walk back to the rack if gowns.

"I hate you."

I'm certain that she hates me. I don't doubt it one bit. But I don't need her to like me. I need her to obey me. "The earlier you accept that this is your fate and do as you are told, the better it will be for you."

"Does no one ever stand up to you and win?"

"No." I come across a simple ivory satin gown that will show off her tits. "What about this one?"

She doesn't even look at it. "Fine. Who cares?"

"Nice. I'll tell Maksin to go fetch your stuff. See how accommodating I can be when you listen and do what is asked of you?"

"Yes. Very accommodating." She mumbles and walks to a chair where a floppy hat rests on the seat. She grabs and tugs on it, and at that moment, she looks too young for me. That's for sure. But it is hard to remember her age when she stares me down better than a hardened criminal.

She stares at the door. "Are we done here? I'd like to go back outside and help Vincent."

Ah. Makes sense. So that is why she smelled like the estate. "Sampling wine?"

"No. I'm learning how to make it." She glances over her shoulder. "Do you know that there are over a thousand grape varieties in Tyva?"

"I do, actually." Wine has been part of my family for decades. I sometimes helped with the harvesting and crushing. "You have a favorite?"

"The rose, I think. Or Ciro."

The Ciro is my personal favorite. Then I have a brief fantasy of pouring wine over her creamy white skin and licking it off. "I'll tell Ophelia you prefer this gown, if you'd like to return outside." See. I can be nice.

"Whatever. I expect to find my things on my bed, Sakharov." She then disappears into the hall.

Her lack of respect and sharp attitude makes my dick twitch. She took my gesture and threw it right back at my face.no one would dare do that. Will Karen hold it against me if I spanked his fiancée?

You know you wouldn't stop at just a spanking.

This is the exact reason why I need to steer clear of her. She is driving me crazy.

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