Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(42)

My mouth falls open. “But… we can’t.”

“Yes, we can. And yes, we will.”

“But I…”

I trail off, too embarrassed to admit I expected to have a proper wedding. Silly as it may seem, I expected to wear a white dress and walk down an aisle towards Misha. But now that I think about it, the very idea seems laughable. Why go through a fake wedding for a fake marriage?

Legal doesn’t make it real.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks.

I meet his silver gaze and I feel the shiver of fear snake down my spine. This time, I don’t care that he sees me reach for my pendant. I need the comfort more than I need privacy.

Do you have one more miracle left inside you? I ask it silently.

“Many,” I whisper. “But I’m not about to be pushed out of my own child’s life. So if marrying you is the cost of raising my baby, then I’ll happily pay it.”

I push back to my feet and try to march forward confidently, but standing takes so much of my energy that my body revolts. As soon as I take a step, my head spins and I tip forward.

Time slows. I’m so sure I’m going to crack my skull against the floor—or, worse, hurt myself in a way that hurts the baby. I don’t know why my mind leaps to the worst of all possibilities in the

fraction of a second between tripping and falling, but it does, and all I can see in my imagination is bloodstained dresses and stone-faced doctors with pale hands coming to give me bad news. I see hospital lights and I smell the hospital disinfectant and those pale hands reach for me, reach for me, reach—

Then Misha intervenes.

He catches me as if I weigh nothing. One second, I’m falling, and the next, I’m cradled in his arms.

I should want to push him away, but I find myself leaning into him instead. He smells like cider and cinnamon. It brings back an old memory.

Clara and me in her beat-up green trailer one Christmas, licking the cinnamon icing off the Yule log cake that her mother had just iced for dinner that night.

We both got beaten when the adults realized what we’d done. But it was worth it. It was so worth it.

“Paige,” Misha says with surprising tenderness. “Are you okay?”

I open my eyes and look up at him. The man is even more disarming up close. Those silver eyes of his need to be outlawed. It’s criminal how hypnotic they are.

Focus.

“Should you be asking me how I am?” My voice is not nearly as strong as I’d like it to be. “Isn’t it against the rules or something? We’re not allowed to care about each other, right?”

“You’re being childish.”

“Beats being an asshole.”

“You better get used to it; you’re about to be Mrs. Asshole,” he informs me. “But not dressed like that.”

Then he sets me on my feet and steers me towards the walk-in closet.





31

MISHA

“Wear the damn dress,” I snap.

Paige tilts her chin up defiantly, frown set in stone. “No.”

I’ve been in all-night stake-outs and hostage negotiations; I’ve had guns in my face brandished by men who were not afraid to use them—but I’ve never been as close to the edge as I am right now.

“Why the fuck not?”

“It’s just not… me.”

I bite back a frustrated growl. “You said it was beautiful in the store. You loved the dress. That’s why I bought it.”

“Sure, it’s beautiful. So is chinchilla fur. That doesn’t mean I want to wear it.”

“You’re not making sense,” I tell her impatiently. Especially since I can see the truth in her eyes: she does want to wear the dress. But for some reason, she’s resisting.

“Look at it, Misha,” she says. “It oozes sex.”

“That’s the entire point.”

“Maybe for you. Or… or the women you date. But I’m not remotely sexy enough to pull it off.”

That draws my attention. “You think you’re not sexy?” I can barely hide my surprise.

She seems to regret it as soon as she’s spoken. Her cheeks color with embarrassment. “I’m not fishing for—ugh, never mind,” she mutters awkwardly. “I’ll just wear something else.”

She plucks a white gown from the rack. It’s an off-the-shoulder silk dress with puffy, embroidered sleeves that taper at her wrists. “What about this?”

“Just put it on. Anything is fine at this point.”

“Okay.” But she fidgets in place, glancing back and forth between me and the door. “Can… you step out for a second?” she asks. “I need to change.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve seen you naked before and I’ll see you naked again.”

Her eyes narrow instantly as she holds the dress to her chest. “Excuse me?”

“We’re getting married, Paige,” I remind her. “And in order to legitimize that marriage, it must be consummated.”

Now, it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “Not this again.”

“I’ve given you your privacy thus far. But after today’s ceremony, we will be sharing a bed.”

Her eyes flash. It’s the same brightness I’ve noticed every time we find ourselves in an argument. I wonder if it happens every time she gets worked up or if it’s specific to me.