Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(39)

Paige meets my gaze over the candle flame in the center of the table. Her eyes are glassy, the way they were when I found her in the closet with Rada. Glassy with unshed tears. Glassy with memory.

“Paige—”

“Excuse me,” she says abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond; she just leaps up and sprints for the back hallway.

Just before she disappears into the ladies room, I notice her reach up and clasp her pendant.





28

PAIGE

“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Just breathe.”

I grip the edge of the sink until I’m steady, then splash some cool water on my face. I have high hopes that it’ll help, but in the end, I’m damp and sad instead of just sad. I pace up and down the long, narrow bathroom, nervous energy skittering through every extremity.

Clara.

Saying her name to Rada felt freeing in the moment, but in the aftermath, it’s been more like opening Pandora’s box. Memories I haven’t thought about in ages are flying at me constantly like a horde of black-winged bats. Memories flush with vibrancy and detail. Memories that remind me of everything I’ve lost.

Yes, the trailer park where we met marked some of my darkest days. But it was also the backdrop to some of my brightest.

“Clara,” I whisper to the empty bathroom. “Clara. Clara. Clara.”

Maybe exposure therapy is what I need. If I keep saying her name, the rush of remembrance will be easier to survive.

I pull the pendant free and stare down at it. I remember the day we found this worthless scrap of bronzed metal. It stuck out from the usual trash we found in the junkyard. We both pranced around like little lunatics, basking in the glory of our discovered treasure.

“It’s magic, Paige,” Clara whispered to me in the fading light of the sun. “It’s magic. I know it is. We have to hold onto it forever, okay?”

I made her a promise. On the eve of my seventh birthday, I looked my best friend in the eyes and made a vow.

“Of course. Always.”

By the time I head back to the table, our food has arrived.

“Sorry, did I take that long?”

Misha looks irritable. “When you don’t have to get meat up to a safe temperature, the food comes faster. It’s the only perk of eating vegan.”

I ignore his jab and grab my utensils, even as Misha makes no attempt to pick up his own. In fact, he doesn’t look remotely interested in eating. He keeps his gaze fixed on me.

“Just a little morning sickness,” I lie. “Or night sickness, I guess.”

“Is that right?”

“So do I have another NDA to sign?” I ask, dodging his implied question. It’s not my most graceful deflection, but it’ll do.

Misha raises his eyebrows. “Another NDA?”

“You know, now that I’m your fiancé. I figured there’d be a few clauses to sign.”

He shrugs. “That’s not a bad idea.”

I groan, and his face splits into the kind of smile that makes my ovaries quiver. If I weren’t already pregnant, I’d worry that that smile alone might have the power to do the job.

“No, not much else to sign. Just a marriage license,” he tells me. “But as my wife, the secrets of the Orlov Bratva will be yours to keep. As will the secrets of the Orlov family. You will soon learn that they are one and the same thing.”

“Life and death secrets, I’m sure,” I joke stupidly.

He doesn’t blink. “That’s exactly what they are.”

For a moment, I’m convinced I can see past his expertly crafted mask of dispassion. There’s a loss lying just underneath the coldness. Maybe it’s the whole reason the coldness exists in the first place.

“Who did you lose?” I ask without any real hope that he’ll answer.

I almost choke on my food when he actually answers. “My brother.”

My chest tightens with pressure, like someone sucked all the air out of the room. I feel it acutely: his loss and mine. Two shrouded corpses locked in boxes deep beneath the cold earth. Alone. Decaying.

Afraid.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Misha.”

“Don’t be. Sorrow is a useless emotion.”

I don’t take his prickliness personally. I remember the days after Clara’s death. I cursed out strangers and picked fights with all the people who wanted to help me.

Being angry is so much easier than being sad.

“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re right.”

But then, taking even myself by surprise this time, I lean over my plate of food and place my hand on his. He freezes. This is probably the first time I’ve truly caught him off-guard.

“You can talk to me about him. If you want to.”

Something dark and angry flashes across his eyes. He tears his hand out from under mine and I nearly upend my glass of water. The silverware rattles on the table.

“Why would I talk to you about him?” he snarls.

My body burns with emotional whiplash. “I was just trying to—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You don’t have to be there for me or comfort me. You don’t have to hold my hand or whisper meaningless platitudes in my ear. Your job is simple: play your part and keep your mouth shut. Do that, and I will give you comfort and protection. Don’t, and—well, that’s actually not an option.”