Page 33 of Emperor of Wrath

Well, that’s the end of that conversation, I guess.

For now.

The two of us head over to the bar running along the side of Sota’s enormous living room.

“So,” Mal smirks, completely back to his usual self. “Where’s your blushing bride-to-be?”

“Plotting my demise, probably.”

He smirks again. “I have to ask. Do you have to…” His grin widens. “Consummate this thing?” He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but arranged or not, and disliking her or not, she is pretty hot?—”

“Thanks, Mal.”

“I mean, the fucking ass on?—”

“Yeah, I got it,” I hiss.

“Those lips? Wrapped around?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap.

Mal looks amused.

“What I’m actually concerned about,” he remarks casually, “is her cutting your dick off, not you fucking her with it.”

“That won’t be happening.”

“You know, they make some great lightweight body armor these days. It could feel just like a pair of extra thick boxers?—”

“No, I mean the…” I sigh. “I’m not going to be fucking her.”

“Why, exactly?”

“We have…” I eye him coldly. “We have history,” I finally grunt.

“Oh, really?” Mal chuckles. “How salacious.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I mutter. “That night a few years ago, when I was robbed at the Clover Club in Kyoto? When I lost mom’s necklace?”

He frowns. “Wait, the night—” His eyes go wide. “Get the fuck out,” he almost wheezes, holding in a loud laugh. “That was her?! You’re marrying a fucking animal! I mean…holy shit.” He snickers, shaking his head.

“I’m well aware,” I growl back.

Just then, in my peripheral vision, the crowd parts a little. I turn, and my breath hitches as my eyes land on Annika.

Shit.

Annika doesn’t walk into the room so much as glides. I’ve seen her in a dress before—twice. Once was just the other day at Cillian’s party. The other time was Kyoto. But that was five years ago, and it was dark.

And I’d been drugged. By her.

From my research into her, I’m well aware that she’s not generally a dress type of girl. But when she walks in, and the whole room sucks in its collective breath and turns to stare at her a fraction of a second longer than I’m guessing anyone intended…

It’s enough to make you wonder why the fuck she doesn’t wear them more often. My simmering distaste for and anger toward Annika aside, the woman looks like a fucking dream.

She floats into the room in green satin; a single-strap, floor-length gown that angles diagonally across her chest, giving just the tiniest hint of cleavage. The bias-cut satin hugs every goddamn curve on her tall, slender frame, cinching in at the waist a little before flaring out over her hips and the curve of her ass. A slit cuts up dramatically high on her thigh, giving a teasing glimpse of her long legs and the strappy gold and pearl heels on her feet.

Her hair is where the shockingly out-of-character elegance falls short: it’s pulled up in a no-nonsense ponytail with a few stray locks framing her face. As if someone else had been in charge of dressing her, but Annika was firmly in the driver’s seat for everything else that came with getting ready for the evening.

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