Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(95)

“Me, too. You’re cool.”

Paige grins. “Wow. High praise.”

“Maybe next time, you can come to our house?” Ilya suggests.

“I would love that!”

Cyrille gets to her feet and as they say their goodbyes, I slip into the adjoining room and wait for them to leave. I’ve never felt like an intruder in my own house before, but I don’t want them to know I was listening in.

When Paige comes back inside, I meet her at the base of the stairs.

She stops short when she sees me. “When did you get here?”

“A little while ago.”

She frowns. “Did you see that Cyrille and Ilya were here?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, her lips mashing together in obvious disappointment. “You are so damn lucky and you don’t even realize it! You have a family who loves you to death. A family who loves each other. But you’re so wrapped up in your own grief and your need for revenge that you’re not focusing on what’s really important.”

“Nothing is more important than revenge,” I snarl.

Her mouth opens, then snaps shut and she just stares at me helplessly for a moment. “You know what?

No. Just… no. I don’t have enough sugar in my system for this.”

She whips around, but instead of heading for the kitchen, she walks straight through the front door. I glance at the time. It’s almost eleven o’clock, but Paige doesn’t seem even remotely concerned.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, trailing her.

“I need ice cream.”

“What?”

She stops in the entryway. “Ice. Cream,” she enunciates slowly. “It’s this sweet dessert. Normal people love it. Not sure about you, though. Anyway, I’ve been craving it for a few hours, so I’m going to go and get some.”

“We have two freezers stocked with everything you could possibly desire.”

“Yes, but I want the mint chocolate chip ripple ice cream from Ellie’s Ice Cream Parlor. It closes at midnight.”

I take a deep breath. “I can get someone to—”

“No! No, Misha. I don’t need other people doing my stuff for me. There are a ton of cars in your garage. I can drive myself. I’ll manage on my own.”

“Fucking hell. Fine.” I walk into the garage and grab from the key cupboard. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

She stops, frowning. “You don’t have to come with me.”

Like hell I don’t. She’s acting erratic and Petyr is still out there. I’m not letting her set one fucking toe over the property line without me at her side.

“Just get in, Paige. You’re not getting a damn thing without me.”

She doesn’t look thrilled about it, but she knows I’m not letting her leave alone. So she slumps into the passenger seat and we head off.

Her arms are crossed and her gaze is fixed pointedly out of the window. She’s all riled up and has no idea what to do with all the tension in her body, so it sets every bone to humming like a struck gong.

Finally, two minutes into the drive, she turns to me. “You could have said hello to them at the very least. They both miss you.”

“It’s been a long fucking day, Paige. I don’t have the energy to—”

“They’re family,” she says, cutting me off. “Do you know what I would give to have that? All I dreamed about when I was growing up was having a mother who wanted me to be happy. People who gave a shit whether I was sad or lonely or afraid. You have it all and you’re busy avoiding them when you should be enjoying them.”

I grit my teeth. “I can’t enjoy anything until Petyr Ivanov is dead.”

She shakes her head. “You’ll miss it all, Misha. You’ll miss all the things that matter and you’ll regret it later.”

“Don’t waste your time caring about my feelings,” I say curtly. “I’m not worth it.”

Her eyes slide to mine. They’re filled with passion and emotion and hope—all the things I refuse to get close to. “Maybe I think you are.”





71

PAIGE

Maybe I think you are.

It wasn’t exactly a full-blown admission of my burgeoning feelings for him. But it’s close enough that my palms are sweaty and my pulse is racing.

When I glance over, Misha’s expression is carefully concealed, but shoulders are tense.

He taps on the window. “We’re here.”

It’s only then that I realize we’re not driving anymore. We’re parked at the corner of a quiet street.

The building in front of us has a sign that reads “Ellie’s Ice Cream Parlor.”

It’s been painted since I was here last. The bright canary yellow was swapped out for a bubblegum pink that hurts my eyes. For some reason I can’t quite explain, I miss the old version.

“One middle of the night mint chocolate chip whatever-the-fuck coming up,” Misha grumbles, undoing his seat belt.

“No.”

“No?” He turns to me incredulously. “We just drove across town in the middle of the night because you ranted about needing this specific shit.”

“It doesn’t sound good anymore.” The thought of it actually turns my stomach. “I want…”