Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(36)

The burgundy slip dress I chose is one of the nicest things I own. I only pull it out for fancy occasions.

Judging from Misha’s pinched expression, however, he’s not impressed in the least.

Serves me right for trying to pander to him. I should have tied up the bottom of Anthony’s old t-shirt and paired it with my combat boots. Ugly as it is, I think it made Misha jealous. And I prefer jealousy over disgust.

Oh, well. It’s too late now. Might as well focus on the horrors ahead, not the ones behind.

“Now that I’m in the car, where are we going?”

“Shopping.”

“Um… what?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. I glare at his aristocratically perfect profile, torn between the urge to slap the chiseled cheekbone catching the streetlights and taking out a pen and pad to sketch the man.

“You’re really taking me shopping?” I ask. “For clothes? But it’s late. Everything will be closed.”

“Not for me.”

“People are not going to open their stores just because we show up.”

“Everything is open for me,” he says. “By extension, everything is open for you, too.”

I am way out of my depth here. “Jeez. Life must be pretty boring for you if nothing is ever challenging.”

He looks taken aback, as if that had truly never occurred to him before. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that take.”

He takes the next turn fast without even bothering to signal. I have to grab the door handle to keep from careening into him.

His driving is a reflection of his personality. Confident, cocky, and abrasive as hell. He expects—no, he knows— that the whole world will just lie down at his feet as soon as he commands it.

The craziest part is that he’s right.

“If every door swings open for you a mile before you arrive at the threshold, where’s the excitement?

Life is no fun if you don’t have to work for it.”

“I did work for it, which is why I don’t have to now,” he says. “You get to enjoy the fruits of my labor for free. You’re welcome.”

I scrunch my nose up in distaste. “I don’t want to be some sugar baby. I plan to work for whatever I have.”

“How has that been going for you so far?” he asks.

I set my jaw firmly. “I know I’ve agreed to marry you, but I’m not about to let you change who I am or how I live my life.”

“Sounds like just the kind of challenge you think I should be pursuing.”

I roll my eyes and turn my gaze to the window. He’s driving fast, but I know that asking him to slow down won’t accomplish anything. If anything, he’d probably speed up just to prove his point. To avoid the ensuing car sickness, I keep my mouth shut.

Life with Misha will be all about learning to pick my battles.

I know for a fact there will be plenty to choose from.

If it wasn’t for the overbearing staff following me around the store and holding up options, I could forget this place sold clothes at all.

It’s more like a palazzo than a shop. There is a glass staircase leading up to a mezzanine glistening with jewels and perfume. A crystal chandelier hangs ominously over our heads on thin silver wires.

One entire wall is an aquarium filled with tropical fish and colorful coral, and there’s an honest-to-goodness champagne fountain bubbling in the middle. It’s a little too close to the night at the Four Seasons for comfort.

“Try that dress,” Misha says, pointing to one of the anemic mannequins on an elevated platform in the center of the space.

Without even checking with me, our personal shopper strips the mannequin and folds the gown over her arm.

“Are those diamonds?” I croak.

“Swarovski,” confirms the attendant. “Four dozen in the bodice and another fifty or so in the hem.”

“Oh,” I drawl. “Right. I’ll match the chandelier. How lovely.”

The woman gives me a strange look, but one corner of Misha’s mouth turns up. I can tell he’s trying very hard not to encourage me by smiling. He turns towards another mannequin. “This one, too.”

The shopper heads for it, but I shift in front of her. “I wouldn’t call this a dress. More like a bandana.

It doesn’t have a back or a neckline.”

“The green complements your skin tone. You’re trying it.” Misha waves the woman forward, and she shifts from side to side to try to get around me.

I intercept her again. “I’m not sure anyone would notice the color with my tits hanging out.”

The personal shopper’s eyes go wide and she stops trying to slip past me.

Misha is not amused. “Funny that your taste in clothes is so modest when your language is not. I’ve warned you about your mouth before, kiska. ”

I grin at him. Finally, after days of poking, I’m getting a reaction. “Am I embarrassing you, honey?”

“No, you’re pissing me off.” He takes a threatening step towards me. “We’ve been in here for fifteen minutes and you haven’t picked a single thing yourself.”

I set my jaw and take a step right back towards him, until we’re almost chest to chest and I can smell all of him in both nostrils. “I don’t like anything here.”