Page 45 of The Bratva's Sold Bride

It was because I had something worth fighting for now, a future I couldn’t wait to get started on, and best of all, someone waiting for me at home. And not just anyone, but Olivia. My wife, the woman I would have gone to the ends of the earth for.

I slurred out these sentiments to Ivan as we downed yet another shot. My head reeled, not having gone on a bender like this since college.

“I’m glad you’re happy, man,” Ivan said, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Your day will come,” I said.

“Now you’re just being a dick and trying to curse me,” he said. “I’m telling you, I’m not getting married. The way the rest of you are pumping out kids, Papa should just let me slip through the cracks and stay single, right?”

I shook my head, the lights over the bar blurring into a haze above his head. Both of his heads. “You’ll change your mind when you meet the right woman.”

He laughed at that. “Okay, if you’re so deliriously happy, why is your drunk ass still at the bar when the sun’s about to come up?”

“What the hell?” I struggled to look at the time on the clock. He was exaggerating, but not by much.

I hollered for someone sober to get me home, offering to pay so much that I had a choice of volunteers. I left with Ivan’s laughter ringing in my ears and the ground threatening to rise up and smack me in the face as I staggered out of the cantina after my driver.

When I came crashing into the house despite my best efforts to stay quiet, Olivia flew down the stairs, grabbing my arms and searching my face.

“Oh, God,” she said, recoiling from my tequila breath and shoving me away. “You’re just drunk? All this time I was—”

I grinned. “You were worried about me.”

“Well, I wasted my time on it,” she snapped.

“You just admitted it,” I said, my heart brimming. “You were worried.”

“I worry about street dogs, too, so don’t read too much into it.” With a sigh, she hoisted my arm around her shoulders and led me up the stairs.

I was perfectly capable of going up on my own, but I liked her concern every bit as much as I liked her soft body pressed against mine. I breathed in the scent of her shampoo and then sighed.

“You stink,” she muttered, then pulled the hand that was draped over her shoulder close to her face. “Are these cuts? Did you get in a fight?”

“Not much of one. Not very satisfying.”

“Hmph.”

She dragged me into our room and shoved me toward the bathroom, yelping when I swayed. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face if I tried, even though she was getting annoyed.

“I’m not that drunk,” I said, schooling my face as best I could.

“You are, and you’re doing a crap job of pretending you’re penitent. What do I care if you drink yourself sick?”

“I never get sick,” I said, offended.

“Then I pity your liver.”

“You even worry about my liver,” I said.

That had her snorting, and soon she was laughing, at my expense, because she pushed me under an icy cold shower, with my clothes still on.

“Fuck!” I shouted.

“Okay, I regret not making you strip down first,” she said, grunting as she struggled to get my soaking wet shirt off.

“If you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask,” I said, kicking off my jeans.

When I reached for her, she ducked me, pushing a towel at me as she snapped the water off. “Get dry and get in bed before you fall down and break something.”

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