Page 52 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

That’s how I’ll end up as this guy’s bought-and-paid-for, miserable wife if I’m not careful.

No, I tell my glaring, even-wretcheder-looking reflection.I’m sorry. I really am. But I can’t.

And then I leave.

Outside the door, Gavril is of course waiting. He nods to me. I head out without a word to him.

Only, “out” isn’t where it’s supposed to be.

I end up in some fancy room with ceilings high enough to echo, marble floor graced with a grand piano, and … I groan.

This is what I’m giving up, seriously?

The other half of the room is a stone-walled and -floored studio. It’s filled with enough canvases and paints and pastels to fund an entire art school and my wildest dreams. What are the freaking odds?

I wheel around to gape at Gavril. His expression is amused yet assessing, always assessing. “If you wanted a tour, you just had to ask.”

“I just want the way out.”

A small head tilt as he turns for the door. “After me.”

As he leads me down another hallway with fewer windows and more closed doors, I swallow back the suspicion that we’re merely venturing deeper into the bowels of this maze-mansion.

C’mon, a shrill voice in my mind moans, a man insane enough to propose you be his fake wife for good publicity would have zero qualms locking you in a room, drugging you, and forcing you into the arrangement! Duh!

I keep my steps measured, doing my best not to let myself throw too many nervous looks over at Gavril.

Calm your crazy, Joy.

But the tension in my clenched jaw doesn’t ease until the front doors open and I get a whiff of fresh spring air.

Freedom.

Chowder explodes into barks, galloping over. I scratch his furry head, undo the braided leather leash someone attached to him, then scoop him up in my arms, pressing him to me tight. “Thank God, I missed you. I …”

I stop myself in time.

Now’s not the time to go into a heart-to-heart with Chowder. Especially with who’s still behind me.

When I straighten and turn to face him, Chowder in my arms, Gavril eyes me. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Such a mundane farewell, after how we met, after the conversation we just had.

“Goodbye,” I confirm.

Joy Eileen Smith, you say thank you when people are nice to you.I bite back a smile at the memory. Mom was always tyrannical about one thing: saying thanks where it’s due.

“Thanks for everything,” I add.

He nods. But before he turns away, a look passes over his eyes—one that makes my hands clench with rage. “I’ll be seeing you, Joy,” he murmurs.

His voice makes me shiver. I turn away, swallowing back the“No, you won’t”I want so badly to leave with him.

If I stop or slow down—well, I can’t. I can’t stop. I can’t slow down. Leaving takes momentum, plain and simple. Forward motion. Me striding away, picking up Chowder, leaving. Not looking back, even as I can feel his eyes on me all the while.

12

Gavril

---