“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t just get shackled to a woman who is a complete stranger. I traded my freedom so the two of you could keep yours.”
“And we all appreciate your sacrifice,” Cillian shouts, sincerity lacing his jovial tone as I step inside.
At the bar, I pour myself a shot and immediately throw it back.The shit I do for my fucking family.I refill my cup with fresh ice and pour another drink. Grabbing my glass—and then the bottle—I head back outside to commiserate my newfound marital status.
The hours tick by, and I keep the vodka flowing. With every refill, I find new ways to pick apart the absurdity of this situation. Enzo is enjoying me stewing far too much, tossing in little barbs about how ‘bratty little wives keeping things interesting.’ Cillian is relentless as well, not missing a chance to remind me how I couldn’t pull my eyes away frommy bridein the courthouse.Because, apparently, it’s now a crime to admire a perfect little apple-shaped ass.Trying to ignore both of them, I try to keep my attention on the moonlit skyline and the burn of liquor settling low in my gut.
By ten, I’m still waiting for my phone to buzz.
When eleven creeps by, I find myself wondering if this was all some obnoxious joke.
By midnight, my patience is long gone, and the half bottle of vodka has loosened the last restraints on my irritation. I polish off another glass and slam my empty glass down harder than necessary. “She’s not coming,” I huff.
Lifting her face from the crook of Cillian’s neck, Madison softly insists, “You don’t know that, Nik.”
“Please. We all do,” I grouse. “Because if she had any intention of showing up, she’d be here by now.”
“Maybe she’s—” I shoot a look at Madison, silencing her immediately.
“She’s not ‘maybe’ anything,” I snarl, shaking my head. “She’s deliberately not here. And that isnothow this arrangement is going to go.”
Enzo smirks over his glass. “Sounds like someone is feeling neglected on their wedding night.”
“Don’t fucking start.”
Not heeding my warning, he continues, “I’m just saying, for a man who doesn’t want shit to do with this marriage or the wife who comes with it, you look ready to storm across the city and drag her home kicking and screaming.”
Iamready to do that, andthatis the problem.
By the time I finally leave the terrace and head downstairs to my apartment, my mood is pitch-black. The vodka has dulled the edges of my thoughts, but it has also made me restless. After kicking off my shoes, I drop onto the bed. I stare at the ceiling and run through the logistics of showing up at Ani’s hotel right now. I could.And fuck, I want to.Now on my side, I stare out the window and let out a heavy sigh. Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it—andher—in the morning.
This might only be a marriage on paper, but tomorrow, she’s going to learn that my patience has an expiration date. And it took her all of a day of being my wife for it to run out.
The commotion outside my bedroom door cuts through the haze of sleep before my brain even bothers to register the sunlight peeking through the closed curtains. At first, it’s distant, muffled, deep tones. As they move toward to my room, the volume spikes, and it echoes through the suite. I quickly realize the disturbance that woke me is several men shouting. Someone is pissed. Someone else is trying to calm them down. And they’re all getting closer.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and squint at the clock on the nightstand. It’s early—far too early—for anyone to be yelling outside my bedroom. Still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sit up with an annoyed groan.
The low rumble on the other side of the door sharpens into words I can’t quite make out—my name, maybe—as the heavy footsteps come to a stop right outside the door to my room. Without so much as a knock, the door swings open. All six-foot-something of broad shoulders and barely contained temper of Nikolai Romanov bursts in, with a smug and uninvited smile plastered across his face. An uncontrolled gasp flies from mylungs as I hastily flounder for the sheets and yank them up to my collarbone in an attempt to cover myself.
“Time to go, Mrs. King,” he barks, like this is a perfectly acceptable way to greet a nearly naked woman after barging into her room. He strides to the closet and begins rifling through the hangers with zero regard for the designer clothes carefully hanging on them.
“Don’t call me that!” My voice is sharp—and uncharacteristically shrill—with a displeasure I usually reserve for my unwanted bodyguards when I need a few moments of peace. “And be careful with my things.”
“Why not?” he asks without bothering to look at me as he tosses a dress onto the bed. “It’s your name now.”
I glare at him, my fingers tightening around the sheet. “No. It’syourname. I’m just… just borrowing it,” I sass, pulling the fabric tighter to my chest.
He smirks at me over his shoulder as a tiny scoff blows over his lips. “Pretty sure that’s not how marriage works.”
“Pretty surethisisn’t a marriage,” I shoot back.
He turns from my closet with a look of sheer arrogance. “Pretty sureJudge Ralston and your brother would disagree. And so long as you’re”—he air quotes—“borrowing my name, you’ll be doing it under my roof.”
“Not happening.” I cross my arms over the sheet, anchoring it in place. “This”—I gesture vaguely between us—“was a favor to Alek. I didn’t sign up to play house.”
“You signed up to be my wife,” he states so flatly it almost sounds like he believes this isn’t a sham. “And that means you signed up for my rules.”
Opening my mouth, I am about to tell him exactly what I think about being his wife and how I feel about his so-called rules, only to find myself expelling a squeal instead when he yanks the sheet from my grip. I clamber from the bed and lunge toward him to grab the protection back, but he is faster. Moving fluidly, he quickly wraps it around me—covering me and pinning my arms to my frame—and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
