Page 46 of The Bratva's Sold Bride

“My bones are strong as steel,” I told her.

“Which is why I don’t want you to crack the tile when your ass hits the floor.”

I laughed, buoyant when she joined in. Once I was in my bathrobe, she led me to the bed and tipped me onto it. The cold water had sobered me up, but I liked that she was babying me in her own begrudging way. I held out my arms and didn’t put them down until she sighed and got in bed beside me.

“What kind of life could we have if we stayed down here?” I asked.

“Is that why you bought up all that property? You want to stay here?”

I turned, my eyes crossing at how close her silky skin was to my lips. “I bought it because you love it here.”

She leaned back, searching my face, silent for a long time. “I do like it here,” she admitted.

“I’m so damn drunk I’m not going to remember a word of this tomorrow,” I said. A total lie, but I wanted to hear what she said when she didn’t have her walls up.

“Then I’d want chickens if we stayed here. That area on the other side of the east wing would be perfect for them if it was cleared.”

“I’ll get a crew on that,” I said.

“Sure, you will,” she answered mildly, still thinking I wouldn’t remember any of this. “I wouldn’t want us to get in so many fights, too.”

I snaked my arm under her head and pulled her closer so that her cheek nestled against my chest. “When do we fight? You always just storm away.”

“Then I guess I’d like to stop doing that,” she said so quietly I almost didn’t hear.

“I want what you want,” I told her.

“A normal life,” she said instantly. “That’s all I want, and exactly what you can’t give me.”

I rested my chin on the top of her head, lost in thought. She was wrong about that, and I searched for the right words to make her believe it. But the tequila was stronger than my ability to stay conscious any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I mumbled.

There was no use trying to convince her when she thought I was too drunk to mean any of it, but I meant all of it. Every word. I was going to make it happen no matter what. Before I passed out, my last thought was making sure Olivia got everything her heart desired.

Chapter 27 - Olivia

I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke up with the sun pouring in through the window, signaling that it was well past morning. My phone said noon, but we hadn’t fallen asleep until near dawn. Dima’s arm was still under my head, his other wrapped around me to hold me tight like a teddy bear.

Carefully sliding under it, I rolled off the bed and stared at him momentarily. A sunbeam fell across his brow, and I crept to shut the curtains. His hair was rumpled, and his face relaxed, the bruises and cuts on his knuckles standing out in harsh relief to the crisp white sheets.

So, he got in a fight and then got drunk, stumbling home after making me worry for hours on end.

I hated drunk people, but Dima was nothing like my father was when he had too much alcohol in his system. In fact, I had no recollection of ever seeing Dima drink more than one or two beers or a glass of wine with dinner. Even drunk off his ass, he’d been pretty much his usual self, playful and easygoing. Almost adorable. No secret rage monster came out of hiding.

Still, he better not make a habit of it.

Knowing he was going to wake up with the mother of all hangovers, I went downstairs to make him a big, hearty breakfast to soak up all the extra poison that was still in his system. Señora Cruz had left us a full refrigerator since she only came three days a week, and I pulled out eggs and a paper-wrapped packet of bacon from the fresh butcher in town. As I cracked the eggs and scrambled them, I wondered why I was being so nice.

Surely, I wasn’t buying into his drunken ramblings about a mythical dream life that would never happen? The only reasonI went along with his questions and shared my deepest wishes was because there was no way he’d remember any of it. The man was sloshed, and on tequila, no less. If he did remember, there was no way he could make it happen.

He was loyal to his family; the Fokin name was everything to him. Much more than I could ever be, a mere possession.

Living here permanently? There was no way he’d suggest something like that sober. Fixing up the mansion was no more than a hobby, and starting the new project with the local land developers was because he couldn’t help himself. He had to grab something and make it his if something was up for grabs.

Myself included.

No, eventually, my recalcitrant father would rear his head up from his latest binge of gambling and drink to assure Dima that it was safe to return to California. Then what? It was untenable that I remain a Bratva wife, always waiting up late at night for news of the most recent fight.

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