Page 47 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

It hits me all at once, and I realize that the time I spent telling myself I didn’t care about the differences between us was a lie. I always wished Olive would pull me into her circle and take me dancing with her.

I should have said something. Now, it feels like it’s far too late.

Despite that feeling, a sense of joy erupts in my chest at seeing her again. It’s similar to what I would usually feel, seeing someone again after a while of being apart, except tainted with the new uncertainty about Olive’s involvement with her dad’s activities.

“Olive,” I say when she pulls me into a hug. She draws back, holding me at arms-length, her eyes wandering over me.

“You look so—”

“Different?”

“—good!” she says, laughing a bit. “God, who dressed you, Fi? You look like a million bucks,” then, eyeing me a bit, she says, “and well-fucked.”

“God, Olive,” I say, pulling back and putting the backs of my hands on my cheeks, which are burning. The image of Boris slamming me into the wall of the closet flashes to mind, and I have to swallow it down, or I’ll just flush even more red.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “you are well-fucked. What’s going on? Where have you been? My dad—my dad said you’d been kidnapped, but you don’t look like you were kidnapped.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, to which she narrows her eyes.

“Did someone take you against your will or not?”

“I…don’t know. Both?”

“Fiona,” Olive says, her face crumpling with worry. “Jesus, are you, like, having Stockholm syndrome or whatever?”

“No,” I laugh, waving my hand. “I can leave, I’ve just—”

“So, you could have contacted me? Let me know you were okay?”

“Well, no,” I say, “I left my phone at the office, and I didn’t know your number.”

“I just don’t understand what’s going on,” Olive says, running a hand over her face. “This is like some Bermuda Triangle shit. It’s like—you disappear out of thin air. I was this close to calling the cops, Fi! And then my dad said the Russians took you. I was losing my mind. I thought you were hurt or being tortured or something, and now here you are, looking healthy and well, apparently out at the clubs? Even though you never showed any interest before.”

“Or maybe you just didn’t invite me.” I can hear my words slurring, and I have to grip the sink tightly to keep from falling over. It feels stupid to bring that up now when there are so many other things I should be asking her, but my brain feels mushy like I can’t quite hold onto a single thought for more than a second before it drifts away.

“Oh, my god,” Olive says, her eyes wandering up and down my body. “You’ve been drugged. Have they been keeping you drugged?”

I try to shake my head no, then I remember the bartender coming over with the shots, putting one right into my hand. What a fool I was—my father is probably turning over in his grave. To take a drink from a stranger.

But I was already a little drunk, high on the fun of being with my friends. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Olive,” I say, my head suddenly too heavy for my neck, falling forward. I hear Olive say something and one of her bodyguards steps into the room, walking toward me as if he might take me.

I recognize him. The guy who tried to stab me. The guy who actually stabbed Boris. My body jerks, like it wants to fight him, but I realize with terrifying clarity that I’m not going to be able to fight him in this state.

Someone did drug me, but it obviously wasn’t the Milovs. It was the Allards, and here Olive was, conveniently cornering me when my defenses were down. I stare at her, at the way she’s standing, one hip popped out, arms crossed, and wonder if she’s been part of this all along if she knows about all the terrible things her father has been doing.

I wonder if I know her at all.

Her goon advances on me, and I back up, mind racing but not producing any way for me to get out of this situation. When I glance back at him, I see him grin slightly, and it makes my blood boil. I wish I could wipe it right off his face.

But I’m cornered, and alone, and weakened from whatever was in that shot.

“Fiona!” someone shouts, and when I turn, I see Anya kneeling in the alley outside, the window to the bathroom propped open. “This way!”

Using the lucidity I have left, I turn, running as fast as I can and launching against the wall. Anya and another girl wrap their arms around me, yanking me up through the window just as Olive’s bodyguard’s fingers graze my calf, barely missing me.

I roll into the cool night air, taking deep breaths.

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