Page 49 of Tarnished Queen

Belle laughs prettily. “Yeah, right. I can’t even walk in heels without rolling my ankles. I’d fall right off the catwalk.”

I’m second-guessing my choice of design now. I should have bought her a wedding parka. This low-necked lace gown with sheer panels and slits could be for the bedroom after the ceremony. One extra set of eyes on her is already enough to make my blood boil.

She belongs tome.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “you’d be a natural. You’d be paid to look beautiful and lie on a bed or a yacht all day. Not a bad gig, right?” He winks at her. “I don’t even have a girlfriend to shop for, and I bet I’d be tempted to buy anything you were selling.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I growl, kicking my chair back as I stand up.

Matteo snaps his attention to me like he forgot I was here. Belle turns to face me at the same time. “Don’t, Nikolai. It’s fine.”

“It’s many things,” I snarl, “but it’s not ‘fine.’” I turn to him. “You’re adjusting her wedding dress, you dumb fuck. Do I need to bend her over your sewing machine for you to understand who she belongs to?”

“Hey!” Belle steps off the platform and walks over to me. “I don’t think that will be necessary. None of this is necessary, actually.”

“I’d say it’s very necessary. I’m paying him to do a job, and he’s thinking about my wife in lingerie.”

“Fiancée,” Matteo corrects, because apparently, he’s even more of a moron than I gave him credit for.

A low, dangerous growl rumbles through my chest. “You are severely underestimating how close I am to shoving those push pins down your throat.”

“I’m not interested in him,” Belle says softly. “He’s just doing his job.”

He’s fidgeting over Belle’s shoulder. I glare at him. “Pick up your phone and call your mother,” I tell him. Let her know you hit on Nikolai Zhukova’s fiancée. See what she has to say.”

He frowns in confusion. “You want me to call my mom?”

“I want her to explain to you how badly you just fucked up,” I say. “And I want you to appreciate how generous I’m being in giving you a second chance.”

Matteo shrugs and shuffles into the small office off the main workspace. I hear him whispering rapid-fire Italian. It doesn’t take long to have the intended effect. When he comes back out, he practically bows in front of me, and when he speaks, his tone is stiff and formal.

“I am terribly sorry to cause any trouble or discomfort, Mr. Zhukova.” When he turns to Belle, he doesn’t even meet her eyes. “And Mrs.—”

“Ms. Dowan,” Belle corrects.

He nods and continues. “Ms. Dowan, I’m sorry about my behavior. Forgive me.”

“Forgiveness. Interesting concept,” I muse. The knife on my hip feels like it’s glowing red-hot. Men have died for less than thismudakhas done today. I’m not afraid to spill his blood all over Belle’s pretty little gown just to teach him a lesson. He may not have seen it before, but judging by the pale gauntness in his cheeks now, he gets it: I’m not the man to fuck with.

“Sir—sir,” he whimpers. “Please don’t—”

“Let’s let Belle decide, shall we?” I interrupt.

We both turn to her in unison. Belle is standing at my side, looking like the queen that she is. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to do the unthinkable and cut me loose on this asshole.

Then she nods imperiously, just once, and says, “You’re forgiven. But don’t let it happen again, Matteo.”

I bite back a grin. Who would have guessed? Belle Dowan has a taste for power after all.

* * *

When we get in the car, Belle is gnawing her lip uncomfortably. “You didn’t have to do that back there. That guy was just being a flirt,” she says softly.

“He was being an asshole.”

“I’m used to it.”

I hate the resignation in her voice. I hate that she doesn’t still see how much power she could have. That she is still living life like some little girl locked in a dark closet, hiding from her monsters, when the whole damn world is right there at her fingertips for the taking.

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