Page 61 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“It won’t fit.”

“You haven’t tried it on yet.”

“Not the point. I know it won’t fit. I’m… I’m too tall, too clumsy to pull it off.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” she says, her tone turning stern. “Go on. Take off your clothes.”

“Pardon?”

“Dinner is in half an hour,” she explains impatiently. “I don’t think I have to tell you that Aleksandr doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Backed into a corner, I find myself standing and stripping. The moment I’m down to my bra and panties, I start skirting around Yulia, hoping she’s not looking too closely. All that does is make her pay closer attention.

“For goodness’s sake, Olivia,” she sighs. “There’s nothing so unattractive as insecurity.”

“I’m not trying to attract him,” I retort.

“Aren’t you, though?” she asks. “You want to charm him. Attraction is an important part of that.”

“I thought we established that I don’t actually want to charm him.”

“If you want to live, then yes, you do.”

My jaw drops open. “You mean… He wouldn’t… Is that a possibility?”

“This is the Bratva, my dear,” she says mildly. “Everything is a possibility. Now, come on. Put the dress on and don’t dawdle.”

She unzips the back of the dress and helps me slip into it. Then she zips me back up and twists me around to face the floor-length mirror.

“Oh…” I say, staring at my reflection.

I finger the soft, floaty fabric of the dress. The dress cinches in slightly at the waist, highlighting my figure, and then flounces out around my thighs.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “But…”

“Now what?” Yulia asks impatiently.

I gesture at the neckline. “Look at this.”

The bodice of the dress is tight. It pushes my breasts up, making them appear twice as big.

“I fail to see the issue.”

I sigh, but don’t argue. There’s no point. She’s as stubborn as her son.

Yulia looks smugly pleased as she pulls out a pair of black Louboutin heels and places them at my feet. “Go on. They’ll match the dress perfectly.”

“Did you buy a wheelchair, too? Because I’m not going to be able to walk in those, Yulia.”

“Just try them on. Jesus, I’ve never met a woman so determined not to play dress-up.”

“I was more of a tomboy growing up,” I admit. “I guess nothing has changed.”

“Well, it’s going to have to. Sit there and wait.”

She bustles into the annex to grab supplies from the vanity, then returns to comb out my hair and apply some light makeup. I suffer through it all silently.

But when she breaks out the jewelry, I put my foot down. “No way. I’m not wearing that.”

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