Snowed In with the Bratva Butcher

I ran from my wedding and ended up snowed in with a silver fox who also happens to be the Bratva's deadliest killer. Merry Christmas to me.

Eleven minutes before my wedding, I caught my fiancé with my best friend on top of a deacon's desk.

Hearing them laugh about how I'd squished myself into my dress was worse.

So I ran. Still in that dress, straight into a blizzard.

When my car died on an empty road, a scarred, silver-haired Russian dug me out of the snow and made it very clear he wanted me gone the second the roads cleared.

One cabin.
One bed.
One grump who tried to take down every Christmas decoration I put up.

Then armed men came out of the trees, and the quiet stranger beside me killed three of them before I could scream.

Turns out the Chicago news has a name for him.
The Butcher.

Now someone inside his own Bratva wants him dead.
They saw me. They think I'm his.
And the only way to flush out the traitor is for the Butcher to walk back into the life he walked away from...with a brand-new wife on his arm.

Me.

It's fake.
It's temporary.
He swears he buried his heart with his late wife.
But he looks at the curves my ex laughed at like they were made for him.

We said "I do" to catch a liar.
Now the biggest lie in this marriage is the one I keep telling myself.
That I don't want him to keep me.

The vows were easy.
Staying alive long enough to find out if they mean anything won't be.