Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(37)

“Why not?”

“It’s not me,” I say. “I actually give a flying fuck about something other than myself—like, oh, I dunno, the goddamn planet. So I wear things that are sustainable and recyclable. Why spend thousands of dollars on over-the-top, haute couture bullshit that I won’t ever be comfortable in, when I can go down to the local thrift store and buy an armload of pre-loved clothing?”

I lower my voice, if only so I don’t offend my personal shopper, who really does seem sweet and has been trying her hardest. “I mean, look at that dress,” I say, pointing to the gorgeous, strapless, champagne-colored evening gown hanging against a backlit wall. “It’s beautiful. But where would I wear something like that?”

“Cocktail parties, receptions, weddings, black-tie events, fundraisers, charity balls—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say, cutting him off. “But I’m never invited to any of those things.”

“But I am. Frequently. As my wife, you’ll accompany me.”

That shuts me up. For some reason, I haven’t really thought about how this little arrangement of ours will work in the outside world. Not just any outside world, though— Misha’s outside world.

As far as I’m concerned, it might as well be an alien planet.

Misha must see the panic on my face because he hedges closer, his voice low, backing me into a nearby alcove as his minty breath washes over me, warm and intoxicating. “You may think poorly of me, Paige, but I’m not going to throw you into my life with no guidance. I won’t let you embarrass me, either. The first step is dressing like someone who belongs.”

“If you’re so worried about me embarrassing you, why bring me at all?” I snap.

“There is no alternative.”

“I could just not go,” I suggest hopefully.

“That’s not an option.”

Yeah, I kinda knew that already. Instead of fighting another battle I can’t win, I focus on the one I think I can get away with.

“There’s nothing in this store that I need.”

He sighs and relents. “Maybe not. But there must be something you want.”

My eyes skim over the sea of silk and velvet and crystal hanging around me, then back to him. I shake my head firmly. “No, I’m good.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Very well. Let’s go.”

I stand stupidly in place, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Just like that?”

“I’m not wasting my time if you’re not going to take this seriously.”

“It’s not like we’re going to war. It’s just shopping.”

“I think you’re the only woman who’s ever said that,” he mutters.

He turns and leaves, abandoning the personal shopper with arms full of sparkling dresses behind us. I follow him out of the store with a smile on my face. I notice he exchanges a few words with the manager before we leave, but I figure he’s just apologizing for my complete lack of interest in the whole experience.

“So,” I say once I’m buckled into the passenger seat, “back to the prison?

He shakes his head. “We’re having dinner first.”

“Dinner? Just the two of us? As in you and me?”

He smirks. “Don’t look so scared, Paige. I don’t plan on eating you.”

I blush scarlet at the images that statement conjures up. At the memory of him devouring me on the

balcony railing like he wouldn’t live to see another day if he didn’t eat his fill of me. He made me move into his room, but since that little argument we had about love and sex, he hasn’t made any attempt to consummate our engagement.

“Not tonight, anyway,” he adds. “Unless you ask nicely.”





27

MISHA

“This place is vegan,” Paige points out as she gapes open-mouthed at the decor.

Pothos plants trail along the walls and from the ceilings. Leafy vines wind between the mahogany spokes of the bar and around the cords of the amber, spherical lights hanging over every table. On the back wall, a vertical garden spells out the word “VEGAN.” It’s not exactly subtle.

“It’s good to know my future wife can read,” I respond dryly.

Paige ignores my quip and sits down at our table. “Have you been here before?”

“Of course not. But I figured you’d complain if I took you to the type of restaurant I usually dine at.”

“And you’re usually so sensitive to my complaints,” she mutters sarcastically.

“You’re pregnant. Can’t have you refusing to eat, can we?”

Her smile falters at the mention of her pregnancy, like she’d fooled herself into forgetting for a blissful stretch of time. She takes a small sip of her sparkling water, fingers nervously drumming around the base of the glass. “I’m… still getting used to it.”

“Being pregnant?”

“All of it,” she admits. “I’m still not sure I believe your doctor. I was told for so long that I couldn’t have a baby.”

“Your doctor was a moron.”

“It’s just a lot to wrap my head around.” She reaches down and I expect her to touch her stomach. But instead, she goes for the pendant hiding beneath the neckline of her dress.