Page 47 of Forced Bratva Hostage

Her expressive brown eyes sparkled with mirth, defined by soft liner and a lash accent. When her cherry-red lips curled into a bright smile, revealing a glimpse of her white teeth, my breath caught for a moment.

Her manicured hand trailed the polished handrail with poise and precision while grasping her purse with the other.

She was divine! Angelic in every way—no wonder she took all the time in the world just to get dressed.

However, the delay still left a bad taste in my mouth, and I had a bone to pick with her over the wait. It was so tempting to tell her how beautiful she looked this evening, but I was still feeling a little raw over the time wasted.

“I'm sorry I took so long. Time slipped away from me,” she said, halting in front of me, her lips parting slightly.

Her apology and the beautiful grin that accompanied it melted my heart, softening my mood as my anger dissolved. Yet I wasn't going to boost her ego by complimenting her.

“It's alright,” I said, my eyes subtly roaming over her elegant frame.

Wren squinted, her head tilting sideways with anticipation flickering in her gaze. Wren was clearly awaiting my compliment—a gesture that suggested she must have taken this much time just to impress me.

However, I stood poised before her, wearing a poker face that masked my true emotions. “Let's go. The car's ready,” I said, my tone flat.

Her brows arched, and then her face fell, her eyes clouded over with disappointment. Ironically, I felt terrible for making her feel this way, but I maintained a blank expression.

“Chop, chop.” I tucked a hand in my pocket and sauntered off, a self-satisfied grin playing on my lips despite the twinge of guilt in my conscience.

___________

Soft laughs and hushed conversations filled the grand hall, mingling with the clinking of glasses. The air was thick with the sweet scent of expensive colognes as impeccably dressed men and women lingered around in clusters.

Richard David, a business partner of the Bratva and a personal friend of mine, was throwing a party at his mansion. He'd successfully closed a multi-million dollar deal with a Chinese company, which, in my book, was more than enough reason to celebrate.

With Wren’s elbow locked in mine, we glided through the crowd of smiley faces, soft jazz music playing in the background. My eyes darted across the expansive space and settled on a live band performing in a corner.

Suzanne was their lead singer, a twenty-something-year-old girl—I'd never remembered her age. She was sort of an old fling, someone I used to play with whenever I was bored until I eventually lost interest in her altogether.

I'd never taken any woman seriously before; if I liked them, I'd fuck them and then pay them off. But if they impressed me, then I might consider having them in my bed a second time.

However, that wasn't the case with Wren, hence the reason for the turmoil within me.

As Suzanne sang, her gloved hands wrapping the standing microphone, she spotted me in the crowd and winked.

I ignored her, picking up a glass from a waiter's tray as he walked past me. Taking a sip, I caught a few heads turning to look at my wife, lust and admiration flickering in their gazes.

My jaw clenched as I recognized some of the men staring at her—pigs who would fuck anything in a skirt. My blood boiled at the idea that those assholes were most likely harboring illicit thoughts about my wife, and that made me sick in my stomach.

I drained the champagne and set the empty glass on a nearby table. “So, what do you think of the party?” I asked Wren,my eyes lingering over her body, my hand possessive around her waist.

Those pervs needed to know that this fresh meat was taken by Afanasy Tarasov, and this little gesture worked. One by one, they all turned their faces away, none wanting to ruffle my feathers. I was a force to be reckoned with—they knew that and didn’t even dare to look at her twice.

On Wren's face was a faint scowl, a hint of her ongoing displeasure with my lack of compliments. “The party's nice,” she said, her tone flat and oddly casual.

Yep. I sorta deserved that.

“Look who it is, Afanasy Tarasov.” Richard David laughed, his arms opened wide as he approached us.

Richard embraced me, his breath reeking of alcohol and his palm tapping my back. “You came.” He swayed slightly, a hiccup escaping his lips. “Honestly, I didn't think that you would,” he slurred, stepping back with his hands on my shoulders, his glassy eyes lingering on me.

“Why would you think that?” I asked, indulging him.

He hiccupped again. “Well, word in the street is you got married to a really beautiful woman, and now you're starting to avoid wild gatherings.” He chuckled, signaling for a waiter to step forward.

Wren and I exchanged glances, and I caught a glimpse of satisfaction in her eyes, her lips curling into a smile.

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