Page 74 of Santa Daddy
“Big fan of one of those,” I said before I could stop myself.
His brows lifted. Then he laughed, short and surprised.
“I like her,” he declared, looking at Konstantin. “She has teeth.”
“She bites,” Konstantin said mildly. “We are working on it.”
I bit my tongue on principle.
Introductions blurred after that. Names, faces, grips. Compliments that were tests. Jokes that were threats. Every man here had history with Konstantin. Every one of them watched us like they were cataloguing ways to use me.
“She is pretty,” one murmured in Russian near the buffet table. “Too pretty. Makes him soft.”
“Soft men do not shoot their own to keep a woman,” another replied.
I pretended not to understand, but their eyes flicked to me with new calculation.
At some point, there were toasts.
Baranov raised his glass with a hand that shook just enough to rattle the vodka.
“To Konstantin,” he said. “Who proves he is impulsive idiot like his father, but maybe smarter.” Weak chuckle. “And to his bride. May she make him cautious.”
Laughter rolled around the room.
“And if she does not,” someone muttered, “may she die quickly.”
My stomach turned.
Konstantin’s fingers tightened on my hip in a warning squeeze.
Don’t react.
I didn’t.
I smiled. Sipped champagne that tasted like regret and battery acid. Catalogued faces, alliances, accents. Little things.
Like the way two younger men in the corner kept checking the time on their phones. The way a third man lingered near a side door that led to a narrow corridor marked EXIT.
Like the almost-imperceptible nod Maksim gave them when he thought no one was looking.
The hair on my arms lifted.
“Bathroom,” I murmured to Konstantin, because pretending to be a good little bride was still part of my survival plan.
He bent, lips brushing my ear. “You have two minutes,moya zhena,” he said. “Do not make me come find you.”
My wife.
Possession, not romance.
I slipped away, heels clicking on worn tile, the dress swishing like it was laughing at me.
The “ladies room” was a narrow space with bad lighting and a mirror that had seen some things. I locked myself in a stall, counted to thirty, flushed for effect, washed my hands, and stalled another thirty seconds reapplying lipstick.
By the time I stepped back out into the hall, the hair on my neck was prickling again.
The corridor was empty.
