Page 122 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Always,” Jennifer says.

“Dem?”

Demyan nods his agreement.

“Good,” I say. “That settles that, then.”

“Then, changing gears,” Jennifer says without missing a beat, “I’m assuming that you’re sending Olivia to the wedding with a full security detail?”

“Four cars on-site, plus remote backup on-call.”

“Will she agree to that?” Jen asks.

I stand, adjust my cuffs, and laugh. “She won’t have a choice.”

* * *

I walk into Olivia’s room without knocking and immediately come to a stop.

My wife is standing in front of a gilded, full-length mirror wearing a dress that looks like it was made for her.

It’s a flowy tulle gown with blush and silver embroidery nestled amongst the layers. There’s a fairy tale quality about it. Like it’s not quite real, shimmering in and out of time and space.

The straps are thin across her shoulders and the back plunges low. I stare, taking note of the perfect line of her spine, the contours of her hips, the dimples at her lower back.

A thought crosses my mind, one I barely understand.When did she become everything to me?

She turns. Her eyes narrow when she sees me, but it’s only because she’s trying to stop the blush from creeping up her cheeks.

“It's a bit early to be getting ready for the wedding,” I rasp.

She turns back to the mirror abruptly. “I just wanted to make sure I had something to wear that I could actually fit into.”

“The dress suits you. A little risky, though.”

She looks alarmed. “Why?”

“Because you have a good chance of upstaging the bride.”

She almost smiles at that one. But she manages to turn it into an eye roll at the last second. “Please, Mia will be… She’ll make a beautiful bride.”

“I hope that thought keeps her warm at night after her husband is locked away in jail.”

She glares at me. “We don’t know that that will happen. I still think this could all just be a big misunderstanding.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” I scoff. “A fairy tale story to go with your fairy tale dress.”

I know I’m being cruel. I can see how it affects her, how every single word wounds her like a tiny little cut across her flawless skin.

But I can’t tell her everything I’m really thinking.

How I can’t stop gazing at the swoop of her throat, the peak of her breasts.

How her smell dances on my nose like a dream I can only just barely remember.

How she looks like a fucking angel in that dress, and yet all I want to do is rip it off of her and devour her sweetness.

No, those things will stay locked away forever. Nothing good can come of it.

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