Page 104 of Sinful Bride

I double over.

Wheeze.

And try not to vomit all over both our shoes.

He shoves me hard from behind, one hand firmly planted between my shoulder blades to make sure I hit the ground as hard as possible. I’m able to break the fall at the last second, which scrapes the shit out of my palms and knees.

Dad—no, Stewart; he’s no father anymore, if he ever even was one to begin with—pauses at my side and sucks in a breath, like he’s thinking about kicking me in the gut just to make sure I’m completely down.

I want to think he wouldn’t.

I’ve clearly been wrong before, though.

In the end, he leaves without a word. No kick, thank God.

From him, that is.

But that’s only because the foot that connects with my stomach belongs to a woman. A high-heeled, freshly pedicured woman who stifles a screech of fury between her clenched teeth.

“You fucking bitch!” she seethes.

Brittany.

She is absolutely the kind of person to kick me while I’m down. And she does—or at least, she tries.

I snatch her ankle with one hand while trying to push myself back up with the other. It throws her off-balance, and she lands on her bony ass with a satisfying thud.

Holy shit, she’s stupid. I’m sizing her up while I get back up onto my feet, and the first thing I notice is how underdressed she actually is. Strappy heels, cigarette jeans, and some weird corset top underneath a restrictively tight red leather jacket tells me she came ready for a bitchslapping contest.

Not the kind of ass kicking I’ve been training for under a mob boss’s second-in-command.

I’m limber. I’m dressed for flexibility and comfort.

And I’m done putting up with this bitch’s bullshit.

I wait for her to scramble back onto her feet and maybe, just maybe, figure out that this is neither the time nor place to pick a literal fight with me. She wobbles back and forth on her heels before tossing her hair back and huffing at me.

“Oh, that’s cute,” she snorts as she sizes me up. “You think you can take me?”

“I think you need professional help.” I want to turn and leave, but if I’ve learned anything from Sofi and recent life in general, it’s this: never, ever turn your back on an enemy.

Unless they’re definitely dead. Like, bullet-through-the-head, lights-out-in-the-eyes, stick-a-fork-in-‘em-‘cause-they’re-done deceased.

I didn’t bring a gun, and I have no plans on killing Brittany. It’s not my style.

The only reason why I’m not hitting my little panic button is because it’s absolutely her style. And I’m not sure I want that.

Yet.

“What I need, you selfish bitch, is my fucking fiancé back!”

She swings an open palm at me. She’s fast, but obvious about it, so I’m able to duck out of the way in time.

Instinct—and recent training—has me thrusting a retaliatory jab into her stomach.

“Just so you know, Brittany…” I breathe deeply, just like I was taught. Two inhales through the nose, let it all out through the mouth. Focus. Poise. Calm. “… he was never yours. He couldn’t stand you. I didn’t even want him, and he still kept crawling back to me because that’s how much he just didn’t want you.”

“Liar!”

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