Page 66 of Bad Little Bride

My head whips to the door to find Katana smirking back at me.

Or maybe not…

Chapter

Fifteen

Boston

My fingers tinglewith the need to rip the messy bun off the top of her head, so I clench them into fists in the covers, not bothering to climb out of bed, but sitting up in the middle of it.

She says nothing as she steps in, baggy sweats and a ratty T-shirt covering her, and somehow making her even more endearing. She’s like a cute little Bratz doll, a little rough around the edges and lacking in grace but somehow still intriguing. It’s annoying.

Katana comes over, climbing up and settling beside me like I didn’t stick her with a blade not even eight hours ago. She’s so at ease that I’m too shocked to speak, silently staring as she lights and hits another massive blunt as if it’s perfectly normal to climb in bed with your ex-husband’s new wife.

She hits it twice, staring up at the smoke before passing it over.

I glare at the side of her face and finally, she looks over, coughing through a laugh.

“Come on, princess.” She nudges me with her knee. “Have some.”

“Get out of my room.”

“Have some and I will.”

My eyes narrow. “If you’re trying to drug me, I will kill you when I come to.”

“You and Enzo both.” She pushes it farther in my face.

Groaning, I tear it from her fingers, pulling in a long lungful, but blowing it out before it makes me choke straight into her smirking face.

Katana only smiles wider. “Someone is a secret pothead. She knows how to avoid the burn.”

“Shehas real weapons now.”

Katana’s muscles lock, but a moment later, the girl laughs again, and I’m convinced she has issues.

The problem? She doesn’t seem to see me as one of those issues and I’m not sure what to do with that.

This has to be a play, right? Get in my head, piss me off, screw me over, then screw my man.

Not that she hasn’t already.

Not that she might not still be.

Not that he’s really mine.

We’re both quiet for a while, lost in our own thoughts, mine a full-on shitstorm. The blunt is steadily passed between us until my room is a pit of fog and we’re down to less than half of what we started with.

“Tonight was the first night I’ve been out of this house in two years,” she admits into the air.

I tense, but something refuses to allow me to look at her…and I think it might be a subconscious understanding that she doesn’t want me to. I don’t know why I care. In fact, I should look at her simply because she doesn’t want me to, but I don’t.

I want to ask her what she means. Why she hasn’t left and if it’s been her decision orhis.

Is she his prisoner?

His sex slave?

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