Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(46)

Don’t start panicking now. This is only the beginning.

He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. My heartrate ramps up. Usually, the ring comes before the wedding, but I suppose we aren’t going about things in the traditional way.

He flips the box open, and my brain shuts down.

“Oh my God.”

Misha plucks the ring off of the cushion like it doesn’t weigh a metric ton. “Give me your hand.”

I offer up my ring finger limply, wordlessly, staring at the pear-shaped solitaire diamond ring he’s sliding onto my finger. It’s set in a rose gold that shimmers in the greenhouse lights.

It’s a perfect fit.

“Did this thing sink the Titanic? The stone alone probably costs more than every single trailer in Corden Park put together.”

“Oh, it costs much more than that,” he says cavalierly.

Then he takes my hand, which I’m suddenly struggling to lift on my own thanks to this behemoth of a boulder I’m now stuck wearing for life, and leads me to the table where our dinner is waiting.

The house staff did remarkable work in a few short minutes. The white tablecloth flutters in the warm draft through the open doors and two tall, white candles burn in the candelabra. Silver-plated dishes

gleam ethereally in the low light.

Misha pulls out my chair for me and tucks me into the table before sitting down himself. Meanwhile, I just stare at the ring on my finger. It doesn’t feel real, and not in that giddy, dreamlike, just-got-engaged feeling that girls always talk about.

It doesn’t feel real because none of this does. Not the ring on my finger or the place we’re in or the man who gave it to me.

“It’s a family ring,” he explains. I cringe—as if the thing doesn’t weigh heavily enough on me already.

“It has been on the hand of every wife of every Orlov don for the past two hundred years.”

I almost choke on my tongue. “Then why in the hell did you give it to me?”

He doesn’t seem to share my indignation. “Because you are the wife of the don now, Paige. That ring belongs on your finger. It’s a symbol of your status. And mine.”

I fidget with it, silent for a moment. “Does that mean that your sister-in-law wore this ring before me?” I ask softly.

“For a time,” he says. “But when Maksim died, she returned the ring to the vault.”

“Vaults and family rings and marriages without love… I really did fall down the rabbit hole, didn’t I?” I laugh, half-bitter and half just overwhelmed.

“You’ll get used to it.”

I laugh cruelly. “I really, really doubt that. I spent eighteen years in a shithole trailer park with two shithole parents. It’s kind of a hard thing to move beyond.”

I always assumed that what he’s promising is exactly what I wanted. To forget about my messed-up childhood and my messed-up parents and the messed-up world I was born into. But hearing him say it, I feel more frantic than freed.

Those memories built the person I am today.

Those scars carved out the outline of who I am.

Without them… what’s left?

Misha’s dark eyes churn. “You’re clutching your pendant again.”

I look down and realize that the metal has in fact left little grooves in my skin. It’s odd: sometimes, when I lie really still at night and hold onto it, I get this phantom feeling. It’s fleeting and it’s vague, but there are moments when I hold the necklace and I swear I can feel Clara there, hiding just out of sight.

Whispering secrets I won’t remember in the morning.

Trying to tell me that she’s still around… somewhere.

If only I knew where to look.

“Can I see it?” he asks.

I jerk my chin up. “You want to see my pendant?”

“I’ll see it eventually either way.”

I’m not sure if that’s a threat or a simple matter of fact. But I decide not to fight him on it. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He eyes me coolly, and I have a feeling he’s going to renege on his request. Then he reaches for his chain. But instead of pulling it out, he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt.

The fabric falls away from his chest, revealing the silver dog tag that lies between a pair of pecs carved from marble. I see scars, tattoos, rippling muscles, and for a moment, I’m so distracted that I forget how we ended up here in the first place.

My face burns, but I lean forward to squint through the candlelight. There’s an inscription on the front that I can’t read. His expression remains detached and uninterested even while he’s bared and beckoning me closer.

I get up and drag my chair closer to him. This close, his cologne makes my head swim. I swallow down my nerves and focus on the dog tag. The writing is still hard to read, but I’m close enough now that I can make out the words.

Vse dlya sem’i.

I glare at him. “That’s not fair. It’s in another language. I don’t read Russian.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Tell me what it means.”

He shakes his head. “Show me yours now.”

“That isn’t fair!”

“Retract your claws for a moment, kiska. I might still tell you what it says. But you have to give some to get some.”