Page 46 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

Anya stares at me with wide eyes for a moment, and I snort loudly, which sends her into giggles again.

“No way, girl, you’re a virgin?”

“Shut up, Fiona, you don’t need to tell the whole world, Jesus,” Anya says, tugging me down the alleyway. She’s stumbling a bit in her heels, and it occurs to me that maybe this is why Olive likes going out—drinking with your friends, getting sloppy together; it’s so freeing—just pure fun.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and she fixes me with a glare before stopping to fix her lipstick in the reflection of a window.

“You’d be a virgin, too,” she says, smacking her lips and putting the lipstick away, “if you had brothers like mine. All in the club, Anton warning guys away from me, Viktor generally being crazy and all the men there knowing who I am, and who they are, and what’s going to happen to them if they put a finger on me!”

“Yeah,” I say, “but you’re lucky to have them.”

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” she says, “I know you don’t have much family. But you know what? BRomanli doesn’t affect the taste of chocolate. Or whatever.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re both allowed to complain. I’ll complain that I have too many brothers, and you can complain that you don’t have any at all. And we can both be right in that.”

“Anya, did you drink at all? You are talking way too intellectually right now.”

“Well, you just managed to say intellectually, so you can’t be that drunk,” she laughs. “Now come on. I want to go somewhere without my meddling brothers. Somewhere they can’t hover over me, threatening any guy who even dares to look in my direction.”

I laugh, falling against her, and she wraps her hand around my bicep, righting me a bit.

“And yet, they’re all getting ass every single night,” I mutter, thinking of how I’d seen Roman disappearing into a back room with one of the dancers the last time I was in Noch.

“Ew,” Anya laughs, “don’t talk about my brothers like that. Disgusting.”

We turn the corner, and Alors comes into view. I pull on Anya’s arm a little, knowing that’s the club Olive would always go to. It’s been months since the day I disappeared into thin air—has she missed me? Has she been looking for me? Or is she just glad that it was me and not her?

Olive knows me more than anyone—or, at least, she used to. I never told her about my dad and what it was like for me growing up. She would have no idea that I could hold my own against Boris or that entering the world of the Bratva would be the first interesting challenge of my life.

Based on what she knows about me, I would be terrified, crying and throwing up like Penelope was when Kervyn took her. If that’s what she thinks is happening to me, shouldn’t she be looking for me? Getting her dad to throw his resources behind getting me back, and making sure I’m okay?

“Anya,” I say, “I think that’s a French club.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she says, patting my hand and pulling me along. “I used to come here all the time.”

Despite my apprehension, I follow her past the line, just like at Noch, and to my surprise, the bouncer lets us inside without so much as a second glance. I relax a little. Surely, they wouldn’t let Anya inside if they knew who she was? Just because Olive always came here doesn’t mean her dad owns the place, I suppose.

Anya eases me into the middle of the crowd, and we dance, throwing our hands up and giggling with other girls in the crowd. My entire life, I didn’t feel like I belonged with the other women, laughing and looking beautiful. And now, here I am, right in the middle of them, feeling like the bubbles in a champagne glass.

When a girl stumbles and spills her drink on me, it doesn’t even dampen the mood. I just stand still for a moment as she apologizes, then I throw my arms in the air and whoop, getting right back to the dancing.

A bartender appears and gives us all shots for free. The other girls giggle and toss them back, so I do, too. The lights are flashing, and the DJ is playing all of our favorite songs. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.

We dance for all of ten minutes before the shots catch up to me, and I suddenly have to pee so bad I feel like I might have an accident on the dance floor.

“Bathroom!” I say to Anya, who just laughs and pushes me toward the women’s restroom. It’s dark and loud, but I manage to push through the crowd and find the little sign showing me where the bathroom is.

I stumble my way there, my head spinning. I’ve never felt like this after a few shots before, but to be fair, I’m not really a big drinker. I put a hand to my head when I get into the restroom, glad that it’s quiet and cool inside.

After peeing, I come out and make my way to the sink, washing my hands and splashing some water on my face. I’ll have to figure out what kind of shots we took so I can make sure to never take them again.

I’m drying my hands when the door opens, and another woman comes in. I toss the paper towels, turning to go past her, but stop when I realize who it is.

“Fiona,” Olive breathes. “Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been?”

Her hair is a little lighter now. She must have gotten blonde highlights during the time that we’ve been apart. Other than that, she looks exactly the same. Tall, perfectly tanned, perfectly manicured. Everything about her is perfect.

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