Page 22 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“Other than me,” I say, “our siblings tend to avoid disagreeing with him. He’s been known to make some…questionable decisions. In fact, our parents were seriously worried that he was psychopathic when we were kids. He’s simmered down since those days, but none of us have forgotten just how unhinged he can be.”

Fiona laughs, and in a move that shocks me, she finds my hand in the dark, lacing her fingers through mine. Her hand is so small, so delicate, yet I remember how she used it to spray me with mace and throw her knife at Viktor. Fiona is a mirage, a facade of delicate beauty with an ocean of violence underneath.

“I want to tell you something, Boris,” Fiona says, swinging around in front of me and walking me backward until we’re partially concealed by the tall bushes that surround the property. “I am always the most unhinged person in any room. I made my peace with that fact. Viktor may think he’s edgy, but I’m all the sharpener for a guy like that. We’re not even in the same ballpark.”

“Are you trying to convince me that you’re crazy, Fiona?” I breathe, looking down at her, at the way her cleavage rises and falls in her dress.

“You don’t need convincing,” she says, her eyes darting back and forth between mine. “You already know. You knew as soon as you saw me in the office.”

I think back to that moment. I remember thinking Olive Allard wasn’t what I thought.

Fiona presses her other hand to mine, lacing our fingers together, then bringing them up so they’re held between us.

“Here’s the thing, Boris,” she says, her eyes skimming over our hands, then migrating to my eyes. “You guys were raised in a mafia family. I was raised by an ex-marine with PTSD and a survival bunker. I learned how to grapple when I was four. I had an AK-47 in my hands by the time I was twelve. I’ve trained in six different styles of fighting. I know how to wield most blades—including scimitars and katana swords. I don’t know what kind of stuff your parents did to prepare you, but I’m assuming our childhoods were similar. I don’t trust anyone. I move through the world feeling like I’m different, and it’s because I am. It’s hard to feel a sense of camaraderie when you know you could easily kill everyone in the room if you had to. I don’t feel that with your family. With your family—with you—I have the strangest feeling like I’m home.”

“You’re right,” I say as she approaches me. “You are crazy.”

With that, Fiona drops our hands, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me down to press her lips to mine.

Chapter 10 - Fiona

Boris responds to me immediately, his hands anchoring in the small of my back, pressing my body close to his.

My senses are overloaded—the scent of the roses, the sound of our breathing together, Boris’s cologne, how he growls low in his throat, his hands moving over me like a dying man looking for purchase on a rocky cliff face.

In a second, he’s turned us around, bunching my dress up around my hips, his fingers finding me, damp, through the cotton of my underwear. I gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth.

I tighten my hold around his neck, pushing my tongue into his mouth, fighting with him to gain traction. His fingers move faster, bringing me closer and closer, until I’m unraveling against the side of the building, gasping and pressing my forehead into his chest.

Boris growls, low in his throat, when I drop to my knees in front of him, pulling out his cock and taking it in my mouth. His hand comes to the back of my head, guiding me. I look up at him through my lashes, watching him watch me, and the moment is so erotic that I feel myself getting wet again.

“Fuck,” he says, “I like seeing you on your knees, Fiona.”

A moment later, with a few final thrusts, he comes, and I stare up at him, swallowing every drop. It makes his eyes go even darker, and he grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me up, acting like he’s going to tuck me into his chest.

Then, to my surprise, he takes a shuddering breath, shaking his head and dropping his hands. I feel the absence of his touch, a cool chill running over my skin.

“I can’t—I can’t give you what you want,” he growls, stepping away from me and putting his hands on his head like he’s just run a marathon. “I don’t think I’m the man you want.”

“I feel like I’m being pretty clear that you’re the man I want,” I say, still tasting him on my tongue.

“No—what you said about Olive earlier,” he says, turning his head. “I can’t agree to that, Fiona.”

“What?” I ask, stepping back and bringing a hand to my chest. “What do you mean—you can’t agree to that?”

“I won’t promise that nothing bad will happen to her. I can’t promise that.”

Images of Olive—jumping on my bed, telling me what to wear, cackling in her deranged way when someone she hates gets canceled—fill my head, and I stumble away from him, shaking my head.

“No, Boris, I swear to god there’s no way she has any idea what her dad is up to. Are you hearing me? You said you don’t hurt innocents. Olive is an innocent.”

“You can swear to god, but that doesn’t mean I can be sure of it.”

“I want to make something perfectly clear, Boris,” I saw, narrowing my eyes at him and stalking forward until I could jam my finger into his chest. My emotions surrounding this man are so confused—one second, I’m wet and begging to get his cock inside me, and the next, I hate the sight of his stupid fucking face. Right now, it’s the latter. “If you hurt Olive, I will make it my personal mission to bring this—” I motion to everything around us, “—burning to the fucking ground.”

“Fiona—”

“Olive is the only person in the world that I care about. She’s the reason I made it through freshman year, you fuck.”

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