Page 19 of The Bratva's Forced Bride

“Are you fucking listening?”

I blinked. He’d been talking. “What?”

He let go of my shoulder with an eye roll and a sigh like it physically pained him to even talk to me. “The dressing room’s been prepped. They’re waiting for us.”

With that said, he walked away, expecting me to follow him like a lost puppy. The saddest part is that I did.

****

Maeva’s assistant pushed more racks toward us—well, more like toward him since the only thing I did was stand there and wait patiently while he made all the selections. I wasn’t allowed to pick anything or offer my opinion. The first time I tried was the one and only attempt I made. He glared at my hands until I thought flames would erupt, and I instantly pulled away.

No need to anger the gods. I didn’t think I could stand being struck by lightning bolts from Mount Olympus. Plus, his choices weren’t bad. At all. I was even surprised that he could differentiate between a body-con gown and a slip-dress.

As he perused the racks, the helpful assistant appeared at his side, offering expert guidance and suggestions with a smile that soon quickly vanished from her face.

“What’s the lady’s style? Boho, Flirty?”

No answer. So, she tried again.

“Chic, Vintage …”

Silence.

“Tomboy?”

One dangerous look from him shut her up.

“Her style is whatever the fuck I want it to be. Now, move.”

Even that didn’t go so well. Seconds later, she stood at the corner with her head bowed; and I heard her quiet sniffles as I tried on one exquisite garment after another, each one more luxurious than the last.

After each try, Mark looked more unimpressed.

I hated it, the contemptuous stare with which he looked at the dresses and the bossy tone with which he ordered me to try on another one. I hated modeling for him like a puppet whose strings were controlled by its master's fingers.

Grating my teeth, I snatched a Qi Pao dress and stomped into the inner changing room. When I got out, Mark stood with Maeve, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a Vogue magazine, muttering more French I didn’t bother figuring out.

Soon, they both reappeared by my side, Maeva fisting a measuring tape with a scowl, and Mark grinning at the dress.

Seriously. He liked the Qi Pao?

“I’m not sure about this one.” I pinched the hem of the dress. “It makes me look thin.”

He waved a hand in the air and leaned on the wall. “It suits you.”

I kept silent. Who was I to argue with him?

Maeve startled me with the tape on my shoulder and a sharp hiss at her assistant, Cielle, to grab a stool. I wondered what the stool was for, seeing that both ladies were taller than me in their heels.

Cielle rushed forward with a fancy stool and Maeve practically ordered me to hop on. My eyes narrowed. If this lady didn’t know it, I would be more than glad to show her just how tired I was of being bossed around.

They exchanged glances that spoke volumes and she carried on with the rest of the measurements in utter silence.

When she wrapped up the tape, I climbed off the stool and he got off the chair, wheeling the rack closer to me. I swallowed a sigh.

Peeling a shiny cut-out jumpsuit off a hanger, he handed it to me. The sparkles caught my eye. It was pretty. But I was tired of trying on clothes. I decided to try my luck and give it a shot; maybe if I said something about it, he’d listen.

Deep down, beneath those cold blue eyes and stone heart, he could still have some humanity.

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