Page 41 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“You can leave her a bad rating,” I say, holding my hand up. Anya caps her lipstick and turns, grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet. I’m wearing a black leather skirt and a dark, sparkling top that’s cut low in the back. I’ve always been proud of my back and arms—toned from a decade of working out—and this is the perfect top to show them off.

“I plan to,” Anya says, “but if this mid-term grade drops me down to a B, I’m going to be pissed. My four-point-oh, right down the drain.”

Anya grabs her bag, and we head out to her car—a brand-new black Volkswagen Beetle. I laughed the first time I saw it, which resulted in Anya not giving me a ride anywhere for two straight weeks.

“I wanted pink,” she’d said, crossing her arms. “But it’s like, some sort of Family policy that we all have to drive black cars for some reason.”

“Because it’s intimidating,” I’d laughed, “the little black bug.”

Now, we climb inside, and Anya weaves through the Las Vegas traffic, getting us to Noch in record time.

“Your brother should install some sort of safe driving device in here,” I say, stumbling out and pretending like I need to go to the trashcan. Anya’s driving does, admittedly, make me a little nauseous, but acting like I need to get sick is just dramatic flare.

“Fuck you,” Anya says sweetly, using her phone to pay for parking before we head inside. We walk past the long line of people waiting to get into the club, and the bouncer takes one look at us before letting us in, lifting the matte black cord so we can enter.

Inside, the club is bouncing with energy. Boris said he’s thinking about inviting the guest, D.J., to come on full-time since he seems to have just the right energy for Noch.

It’s been a few weeks since the Family reunion, and things between Boris and I have been steady. He and his brothers still leave the room to talk about important Family matters, but he will sometimes give me little nuggets of information when we’re in bed together.

I think of last week and how he’d told me of his plan to deal with James Allard. Things have been quiet on the French front for a while, but that makes Boris more uneasy.

He told me his plan was to strike the Allards once, to get even and to warn them away from taking any more action against the Milovs. Then, Boris plans to go through with the arms deal that went so wrong the first time.

Last week, before his study-imposed absence, we’d slept together in his bedroom, having mind-blowing sex before falling asleep together.

Every night, after he falls asleep, I whisper I love you into the pillow, waiting for the day when he might say it to me first.

When we’re right in the middle of the throng, Anya stops, grabs my hands, and dances with me. Soon, plenty of guys and girls danced with and around us, all grinding and gyrating to the same beat.

After the long, exhausting week of presentations and exams, it feels good to let the stress out. Then, I look up and spot Boris above the crowd, leaning against a rail and chatting with someone.

The someone is one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen—with long, silky black hair and cat-eye makeup so sharp it’s like she applied it with a dagger. She’s leaning casually on the rail with Boris, looking so steady and professional in her stiletto heels.

She smiles at him, twirling a piece of hair around her finger.

“Who the hell is that?” I ask, pointing at the woman. Anya follows the gesture, her eyes searching until she lands on the woman I’m talking about.

“Oh,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s Miranda Lu. She’s been working with the family forever. She’s like, into weapons or something. I’m not 100% sure what it is that she does, but if Boris is talking to her, he might be arranging another arms deal.”

I’m not sure Anya is even supposed to know about the arms deal, but I’m glad she does. Otherwise, I might start to be jealous of the woman who’s just placed her hand on Boris’s forearm. She’s laughing daintily at something he just said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Boris is funny—I know that. But he’s not that funny. This woman is laughing it up to get Boris to pay more attention to her, and I feel something itchy and uncomfortable roll through my body.

Jealousy. It’s not something I’m used to feeling, so it takes me a moment to identify it.

Besides the whole fake marriage thing and calling me his wife and his girl in front of his family, Boris hasn’t actually asked me to be his girlfriend or to marry him for real. For all I know, he comes to the club every weekend to have his fun.

I’ve been so busy this week, cramming and finishing projects, that I haven’t seen or been with Boris in at least a few days. Is that what he does when he comes here? Gets off with another woman?

I feel my face get hot.

Well, two can play that game.

“Hey, there,” I say, sidling up next to a man who’s been eyeing me for at least twenty minutes. He looks like he can’t believe his luck, and Anya throws me a confused look, but I don’t care. I start to dance on him, fitting my hips against his, feeling as he gets harder and harder behind me.

The man’s hands roam my body. He flattens a palm against my stomach and pulls me into him, breathing in my hair. When I glance up, I see that my tactic is working.

Boris is standing at the rail, the woman still talking to him, but his eyes are on me. I turn, facing the man I’m dancing with and pressing our bodies together. His hands go to my ass. I run a hand through my hair, tossing it over my shoulder.

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