Page 91 of Tarnished Queen

“I know he likes you,” he course-corrects. “After all, he almost threw away his Bratva for you.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly fair to—”

“I just meant that you’re pregnant and he’s marrying you. A tale as old as time, right?” His smile is thin and false, and I just want him to leave. Whatever this is, whatever he’s doing, I want it to end. Now.

“Yeah, okay. Well, thanks for the gift.”

“Open it.” He tips his head to the box.

The last thing I want to do is feign fake gratitude for whatever gaudy necklace Makar and the other Bratva goons put in this box. It’s probably made from the teeth of their enemies or something equally morbid like that. But I’ll do anything to get him to leave. Quickly, I tear off the gold ribbon and lift the lid.

But it isn’t a necklace sitting inside the box.

It’s a knife.

The handle is long and thin, tipped with gold, and the blade is equally slim. But it’s deadly sharp. I don’t need to touch it to know that.

“In case this wedding is a sham and you need an out,” Makar says, leaning in too close to whisper to me.

I search his face for a sign of whether this is a joke or a threat, but his expression is frustratingly neutral. Is it customary for the Bratva to gift the don’s wife a weapon? Why does it feel so creepy and wrong?

“Do you like it?” Makar presses. “This knife is special. It’s the one we took out of Nikolai’s back.”

That clears things up: it’s an insult. At best, this is an insult. At worst, Makar is threatening me.

But by the time I put the pieces together and am ready to tell Makar he better get the fuck out of my room before I plunge this knife into his face, he is at the door.

“Congratulations on your wedding,” he says with a finger-wagging wave. “Bigday.”

Then he’s gone.

My heart is thundering. But that’s exactly what Makar wanted, isn’t it? Maybe what the entire Bratva wanted. They gave me this knife to unsettle me, to make me question what I’m doing marrying their don. As if I’m not already questioning it enough.

I want to marry Nikolai; I already decided that. But everything else is a mess. None of this is how I pictured my wedding day, and now, I’m not only marrying Nikolai, but I’m marrying into an entire criminal organization that, fun fact, absolutely hates my guts.

Suddenly, the conversation Amanda and Kara are having in the corner about their favorite retinoids and which products are best for curly hair feels too loud. The wedding planner still jabbering into her phone might as well be a jackhammer into my temple.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to cut through the noise, trying to lower my heart rate and calm down. But the world is pressing in on me from all sides. I just need a minute. I need quiet. I need…

“Can you all leave?” I say suddenly.

All eyes turn to me.

I clear my throat and try again. “Sorry, but I—I need to be alone for a few minutes. Is there any way you all could… get out?”

Kara shrugs. “I’m done with your hair anyway. I can come back and touch it up before the ceremony as needed.”

Amanda nods. “Me, too. Don’t touch your face and if you start to sweat, dab your forehead, don’t smear.”

“Great,” I tell them. “Thanks.”

The wedding planner is still talking on her cell phone as the three women leave through the side door to my suite. When the door closes, I’m alone.

I drop down onto the pink velvet sofa and count my breaths.

It’s only been a few seconds since the room cleared when there’s another knock on the door. My eyes snap to the closed door, but I don’t move. Don’t speak. Is it Makar back to make use of the knife he gave me?

There’s another knock. “Belle?”

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