Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(31)

Noel steps back, and I turn my attention to the tall, lanky man who moves forward. He’s got the bristliest mustache I’ve ever seen. It’s all the more noticeable due to the fact that there’s not a stitch of hair on his head.

“This is our head chef, Jace,” Misha tells me. “He makes every cuisine known to man. All you have to do is submit a request.”

“That is very impressive,” I say, shaking his hand. “As is your mustache.”

Jace’s eyes twinkle with amusement as he cracks a smile that I’m guessing doesn’t appear very often.

“Why, thank you, ma’am.”

“He had a head full of hair when he came to work here,” Misha informs me. “But I made him shave it all off when I hired him. I despise hair nets.”

My mouth drops open as Misha turns to me with an impassive expression. A second later, his smirk twitches devilishly. “That was a joke, kiska.”

The staff breaks out into quiet, polite laughter. My cheeks flush with color, but I can’t help laughing along with them. I’m relieved to find that, despite Misha’s cold, sometimes abrasive manner, his staff don’t seem to be terrified of him. In fact, it feels like many of them might even like him.

Or maybe there’s some brain-washing chemicals in the water here.

Yeah, probably the latter.

One by one, we continue down the line, meeting each member of Misha’s staff. Mino, the sous chef.

Sanka, the valet. Danica and Mario, the gardeners who also happen to be happily married.

Then there are five maids. Inez and Daria are the oldest, clocking in somewhere in their late fifties.

Selma, Nina, and Rada are all younger, mid-thirties or so, with shy smiles and dimples in their cheeks.

Misha gestures to Rada. The woman turns beet red from her neck all the way to her blonde hairline.

“Rada will be your personal maid. She’ll see to whatever it is you need.”

“That’s nice,” I say awkwardly, not sure how to react to being told I have a human being at my beck and call. “But I’m not sure I need a personal maid.”

“It’s already arranged,” Misha says impatiently. He waves a hand at his employees. “You are all dismissed. Thank you.”

The staff file out of the mezzanine, leaving me to contemplate the kind of lifestyle I’ve signed up for.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, keeping my voice low to make sure none of the staff can still hear me. "I feel like next you're going to hand me a whip."

"I only whip the staff on Wednesdays, but I can show you where I keep it in case they act up," he says with a straight face.

My mouth falls open. "You're… you’re kidding. You’re kidding, right?"

Misha smirks, and I feel my heart wilt like a flower burning up under a too-hot sun. I clear my throat and try to refocus. His pretty smile isn’t going to distract me that easily.

“Anyway… my things?”

Professionalism stiffens his broad shoulders and the light leaves his eyes. “Follow me.”





22

PAIGE

I stand at the threshold of the door, refusing to go in.

“Your bedroom,” I finally manage. I sound like a cavewoman discovering fire. I feel that way, too.

Even though I’ve been in here once already, the realization that Misha is a normal human being with a normal human bedroom is, strange as it sounds, almost too much for my brain to comprehend.

Stepping inside again might overwhelm the light hold I have on my sanity.

“Very astute,” Misha drawls. “Now, it is your bedroom, too.”

I turn to him, waiting for him to slap his knee and laugh. He doesn’t. He just stares back at me, unreadable and immovable.

“Another joke?” I ask tentatively.

Her eyes are tiny glints of chipped ice. He steps closer, forcing me to stumble back into the room.

“No, kiska. It’s not a joke at all.”

“You want me to move into your bedroom?”

“That is the customary sleeping arrangement of husbands and wives.”

“Except I won’t be your wife. Not really.”

“Legally speaking, that’s exactly what you’ll be.”

“Legal doesn’t mean it’s real,” I snap back. “Tell me this: if I weren’t pregnant, would you have even considered marrying me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

I glare at him. “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

I’m fully in his room now, and it’s annoying how much I want to take off my sandals and run my toes through the plush blue carpet under my feet. Almost as much as I want to run my hands through his—

Concentrate, Paige.

“You’re only marrying me because of some archaic sense of obligation. You don’t actually want to be

a husband. I’m not entirely sure you even want to be a father. But you’ve knocked me up and now, you feel you have to see this through.”

His lips are pursed, but his expression is otherwise completely neutral. “Make your point already.”

“My point is, you have your reasons for wanting this marriage, and I have my reasons for accepting it.

None of those reasons involve love or affection. As far as I’m concerned, that means this is not a real marriage.”