Page 4 of The Bratva's Hunted Bride
“Another round?” Amy shouts, not waiting for an answer before she orders a round of shots. A cheer goes up from the group.
Before the drinks even come out, Amy and her boy—a new one, I think—are making out again, and I step to the side to avoid them. Becca takes her shot glass and starts to climb up onto the bar. My cheeks heat with second-hand embarrassment as she starts to dance, but everyone else is cheering and laughing.
“She’s totally going to break an ankle,” Sarah says.
I wince, watching Becca’s stilettos slide on the bar. “Maybe we should get her down from there.”
“Or maybe we should get you up there!” Amy breaks in, reaching for my arm.
I dodge to one side, out of reach. Sarah intercedes, stepping between us. “Let’s get you another drink,” she says smoothly, peeling Amy’s attention off of me, and I’m so grateful I want to hug her.
I use the opportunity to peel myself further from the group, into the corner of the bar that’s farthest from the dance floor and almost secluded. From here, I can just make out the door. If I make a break for it right now, I could be home and in pajamas in under an hour. No, I remind myself, it’s my one night out, my one chance to let loose while my brothers are away.
While I’m mulling over my life choices, a man edges in front of me. He’s too close and smiling, and I can already see where this is going.
“Hey,” he says, “want to dance?”
Behind him, the antics of my friends kick up into another gear. “I don’t dance, sorry.”
He’s undeterred. “A drink, then?”
Raising my half-empty glass, I say, “Already got one. Look, I’m just here with my friends tonight. I’m not looking for—”
“Ah,” he interrupts with a vaguely philosophical tone that’s completely at odds with his appearance, “sometimes when we’re not looking is when we find the thing we need.”
Politely, I bite back my laughter. Barely. “And you’re the… thing I need in this scenario?”
He draws himself up a little taller and moves in closer. I’m practically against the wall, having wedged myself as far out of the chaos as I possibly could, and there’s nowhere for me to back up. His cologne is thick and floods my nostrils, making me sneeze.
“I could be.” He raises his eyebrows in what must be an attempt at debonair, but just makes him look slightly alarmed.
The poor guy is really trying his hardest. I don’t want to be rude, even if he’s invading my space and ignoring my subtle signals of disinterest, but it’s obvious that he’s not getting the message.
Before I can formulate the words to respond, a shadow falls over us as a huge man steps between us. Huge feels like an understatement. He’s tall, well over six feet, and looks to be pure muscle. His wide shoulders edge out the other man completely, forcing him to take a step back or be trampled. The stranger’s hair is thick and black, streaked with a few silver strands at the temples, and tattoos cover his arms.
Standing next to the other guy, I see why there are two categories: boy or man. This one is all man, and my long-dormant sex drive starts to hum with interest. It’s been so long Ialmost don’t recognize the coiling of my stomach for what it is as my eyes meet his grey ones.
“Run along now,” he says to the other man. To the boy. His voice has a rumble to it that makes me want to lean in, to feel the vibration in my chest.
The boy bristles, an instinctual indignation that I can see die in his eyes almost as soon as it’s born when he takes in the man from head to toe. “Excuse me? I was here first. She was talking to me.”
“And now she is not.” The large man does something that somehow makes him seem even larger, drawing back his shoulders with a grim expression on his face.
It’s too much for the boy, who realizes this is a fight he can’t win, and retreats with his tail tucked to try his luck somewhere else. And now the man’s attention turns on me. Fully.
The intensity of it, of him, flushes my skin with warmth that I know is rising in my cheeks. He’s still glaring, and I think that might just be his default expression. It is rather hard to imagine his face making another one.
“That was a bit rude,” I say, and even though I’m in heels, at only five feet tall, I have to tilt my head back to look at him properly.
“You didn’t want to talk to him.” It’s not a question, and I bristle at the presumption that he knows my thoughts.
Even that barb of irritation does nothing to slow the quick rhythm of my heart when he looks at me. I want to climb this man like a tree. He’s sobigI can’t help thinking of all the things he could do to me, the way he could throw me around like a rag doll.
“You don’t know that,” I protest. “I could’ve been very interested in what he was offering.”
He cocks one eyebrow, and the effect is quite different from the boy’s attempt—‘debonair’ isn’t the right word. Rakish. Dangerous. Hot.
“Should I call him back?”
