Page 49 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

My father and Leonid are power-drinking whiskey in the sitting room while Katerina sits with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap on a small sofa with a glass of white wine on the table next to her.

She stands when I walk in. But her smile is absent, and her gaze doesn’t meet mine. It lands just south of my chin. Something’s changed. But we have our fathers and their expectations to survive tonight, so she’s on her own.

I kiss her cheek in greeting, then straighten. “You look nice.” And she does. Her long, blonde hair is tied back and her makeup, as always, is impeccable. But something is off. Something distant and hazy in her green eyes. Like her thoughts are far away from here. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She half-smiles.

“Lot of that going around today.” First Alek, now her.

When I turn to greet Leonid, my father quirks an eyebrow. “You’re late.”

“I apologize.”

“Katerina, darling,” Leonid says languidly, “take your fiancé and go get him a drink. He looks stiff tonight.” He and my father both laugh, though I don’t get what’s so funny.

Either way, Katerina nods demurely and rises, offering me her hand. I don’t take it. I follow her slinking form through the doorway and out onto the patio.

“What would you like to drink, Tomas?” she asks me. Her voice is pleasing, but there’s a bite to the end, a nip she puts on the end of my name. And that look in her eyes—there’s something she’s not telling me. Something I don’t know.

“Nothing.” I don’t need a drink. I don’t need to eat roasted duck or rack of lamb or whatever is on tonight’s menu. Getting through this is the best I can hope for. Getting through it and home before Corrie is asleep is probably too much to ask.

I glance inside the window. Leonid and my father have their heads bent together, probably plotting to take over the world. Katerina follows my gaze, sees them too, and chuckles. “They’re like two little girls, so pleased with themselves and their plans for us.” Her eyes flit back to mine. “Does calling this whole song and dance awkward make it more or less so?”

I do a double-take. “What? You aren’t thrilled to be forced into dinner with the man you’re being forced to marry?”

“Hearing you put it into words is so …” She widens her eyes and shrugs. “I don’t know what it is. But I know it isn’t pleasant.” She sighs, overdramatic. “The only saving grace is I know it isn’t any more pleasant for you.”

“Ouch.” I lay my hand over my heart.

“I go for the kill shot.” She makes a pistol out of her thumb and forefinger and shoots.

“Good to know. I’ll keep my distance then,” I mutter.

“What’s our play here?”

I blink. I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about.

She sighs. “Our play. How are we doing this with them? Are we going along or … what?” There’s a hint of panic in the way her voice quivers.

“With dinner or with the … other thing?” I know what I want to say about both, but her eyes are watery, sad. She looks like a bird in a cage, I realize suddenly. A beautiful cage, but a cage nonetheless. I don’t know how I didn’t notice before how terrified she looks all the time. How desperate.

“Either. Both.”

“I’m hungry so I’ll probably go along with dinner. Personal chef and all. Then maybe we can get together and decide what to do about the … other.”

“Okay.” She nods and looks down. There’s something she isn’t telling me.

It takes a minute for her to compose herself so she can go back to pretending we’re just a happy couple making wedding plans.

“Don’t worry. I’m not at all offended that the thought of marrying me reduces you to tears.” I feel compelled to lighten her mood, but her frown only deepens. “Hey, I’m just kidding. No big deal. You can be as unhappy as you want.”

“Thanks.” Sarcasm?

“Don’t mention it.”

Just that fast, the atmosphere turns to shit. She’s sullen. My father and hers are watching the whole thing, and I don’t have any choice if we want to keep up the charade. I pull her close, stare down, and when she doesn’t lift her head, I curl my finger under her chin and nudge her until she’s looking up at me.

“Smile,” I instruct her. “They’re watching us.”

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