Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(35)

Family is who you choose. We held onto those words throughout our childhood, while the world raged and boiled and tore itself apart around us.

We never thought to ask the most obvious question, though.

If family is a choice… what happens when you choose wrong?





25

MISHA

Is Paige really crying over her ratty old clothes?

It’s the only explanation I have for the misty sheen I see in her eyes as she stands in the closet with Rada.

The two of them are absorbed in whatever they’re doing, so I watch them through the doorway for a few seconds before Rada looks up and sees me. She trips over herself to stand at attention in front of me, head lowered to stare at the space between her feet. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“No, Rada. Thank you. You’re free to go.”

She gives me a frantic nod and shoots a furtive smile at Paige before rushing out of the room. Paige drifts to the threshold of the walk-in, eyeing me with reluctance.

“I assume everything is to your liking,” I say.

She bristles. “You threw out almost all of my clothes.”

Her eyes clear, the sadness washed away by indignation. Turns out she wasn’t crying about the clothes, after all. Not to say she’s happy about my closet clear-out.

“They looked like dish towels and dirty rags to me. I figured you’d thank me for getting them off your hands.”

“Of course you thought that,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You probably think everyone should be thanking you for every moment spent in your presence.”

“Perhaps they should.”

“Well, excuse me for not partaking, Mr. Fancy Pants. Some of us don’t give a shit about spending ridiculous money on a suit simply because some jumped-up designer slapped his or her name on it.

Some of us have more important things to care about than how we look.”

I look her up and down slowly. “Clearly.”

She looks down at the oversized t-shirt she’s wearing, her cheeks pink. “This isn’t for fashion, asshole; it’s for comfort.”

“There’s a stain on it,” I point out. “Right there.” I reach out to touch just above her hip. My fingers tingle before I even make contact. Like two magnets yearning to be near each other, propelled by something invisible and irresistible.

But I’m still an inch or two away when she recoils backward. She grabs at the edge of the t-shirt and pulls it up towards her to examine the stain, revealing a thin strip of her bare abdomen. It’s just a quick flash, but it fills me with a gnawing hunger for more.

Not good.

“Anthony was a messy eater,” she mumbles.

I feel the lustful hunger inside me die a quick death as I fix her with a penetrating glare.

She frowns in confusion. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re still wearing your fake husband’s t-shirt?”

Her shoulders square, ready to defend her bizarre choice. “It’s not a sentimental thing. It’s just comfortable.”

I bite back my annoyance and force my expression into impassivity. I don’t want her to see that lash of anger in me at the thought of her dressed in another man’s clothes. Hell, I don’t want myself to see that.

“I suppose it’s better than the alternatives in your closet,” I grit out.

“I like the way I dress,” she says defiantly, lifting her chin.

Her eyes are on fire right now. What would it take to tamp down those flames?

Again, I assess her from head to toe. Paige squirms under my gaze and crosses her arms over her chest. I don’t even have to speak to have conversations with her sometimes.

“Okay,” she says, fidgeting, “well, what I’m wearing right this second isn’t exactly, y’know, nice.

This is not a good example.”

“Take it off.”

“Excuse me? You don’t get to tell me—”

“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” I interrupt. “You need to look decent. So take it off.”

“What?” she balks. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s because you haven’t gotten any good ones.”

“You can say that again,” she mumbles under her breath.

“You’re marrying me, Paige,” I remind her. “So I’d say that’s about to change.”





26

PAIGE

The moment I slide into the passenger seat of Misha’s gaudy silver convertible, he shifts the car into drive.

“I said ten minutes,” he growls. “That took twenty-three and a half.”

Sanka, the valet, just barely gets my door closed before Misha rips off down the driveway, engine snarling like a caged lion. The gates at the mouth of the drive open as if by magic.

“I decided to shower,” I lie.

My hair isn’t wet and it’s clear I’m lying through my teeth, but I don’t want to admit that I stood frozen in front of my closet for fifteen minutes trying to figure out which outfit would offend Misha the least.

Mostly because I hate myself for caring so much about what he thinks.