Page 55 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

“What?” she yelped. “Are you crazy?”

“You ask me that a lot,” I said.

“You want to put the grand opening on hold?” she asked, standing up to pace back and forth. We had settled down on the couch in the entertainment room to pick a movie, but no amount of aiming the remote at the screen got her to sit back down.

“It’s happening, Laurel. Now do you want a comedy or—”

“It’s ridiculous,” she insisted, her hands on her hips. “What about the ad campaigns, the celebrities you’ve been chasing, the food critics who already agreed to give us a shot?”

“None of that’s more important than your safety.”

With a gasp, she stopped pacing, her face crumpling up. “No. No way. Not because of me. I won’t let you delay this because of me and my problems.”

“You’re not letting me do anything,” I snapped, my own temper rising to meet hers. “You’re staying put in this house until Rand Eckvald is behind bars.”

Or dead. I kept that option to myself, but it was the one I preferred.

“What?” she asked, her eyes flaring. “Did you just tell me I’m staying in this house? Meaning you think you’re not going to let me out of it?”

First and foremost, I was proud of her for not going to pieces at my very obstinate and controlling stance on the matter at hand. Laurel of a few weeks ago might have shrunk in fear. That would have been more convenient, but I wouldn’t have changed her fiery attitude as she faced me down.

“Yes,” I said mildly. “End of discussion.”

“No, it isn’t. Who do you think you are?”

“Your boss,” I said. There, that got her attention, and her hands fell from her hips to land loosely at her sides. “If you want a job in the restaurant, you’ll return to work when I deem it safe to reopen.”

“And in the meantime, I stay here,” she said, glaring at me through narrowed eyes.

“Yep,” I said. “Now, sit down and help me pick a movie.”

That was a step too far, and she shot me one final dirty look before storming upstairs. I couldn’t tell which door she slammed once she got up there, but I had a feeling she was back in the guest room at least for tonight.

She’d come around, and I’d take her angry if it meant she stayed safe.

I didn’t watch a movie on my own, and when I went upstairs after giving her a reasonable amount of time to cool off, she still wasn’t cool, but locked in the guest room. I didn’t knock, worn out from the last few hectic days, and fell into bed, only with thoughts of Laurel when we were getting along perfectly on the plane to help me drift off to sleep.

The next day, I left the house early to avoid another argument. After the low blow of threatening her job, I wasn’t sure how she’d react. I met up with my brother for a cup of coffee and to catch up on what had happened in LA the few days we were away.

He already heard everything about the odd attack on the hotel room and offered his opinion. “That doesn’t sound like anything to do with these Collective bastards,” he said. “Breaking bottles and spilling wine? That’s definitely psycho ex territory.”

I didn’t bother sharing that I wasn’t completely convinced the two weren’t intertwined, and after he told me about the fight they had to deal with the other night, there was nothing new to share.

“I’ve got to go tell a bunch of construction workers who I’ve been making jump through hoops for more than a month that they’re on vacation for a while,” I told him on our way out of the coffee shop. “Not to mention two highly strung designers and a chef who might be on the verge of poisoning me.”

“It’s the best decision,” Luk said, loyal to the core. “I’m still shocked that you’re married at all, but it’s the right call to protect your wife.”

He was going to beat the shit out of me when it came out that our relationship was fake, but only if I couldn’t find a way to make Laurel see that it was real as far as I was concerned. Keeping her locked up in the house forever started to seem like a good idea.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I was braced for a bloody battle, but only figuratively. Instead, I found Todd holding an ice pack to his eye while blood trickled from a gash on his forehead. Chase was furious, going back and forth between the back door and checking on Todd. One of the members of the kitchen staff mopped at several cuts and burns on his face and arms while the sous chef cried inconsolably, the ends of her hair singed.

“Oh, thank God,” Chase said. “Todd here refused to call the cops until you arrived.”

“What the fuck is going on?” I looked up, thinking the only explanation for all the injuries could be the chandelier that was recently installed falling on them. But it was still hanging there, and no broken crystals littered the floor.

“Out back,” Chase said, and I followed him to see not only the broken glass I’d been expecting, but scorch marks dotted along the concrete and walls. Tire marks led away to the end of the alley.

“We had an early delivery,” he said. “Todd offered to help the kitchen staff bring it in, but instead of new bowls, they got firebombs chucked at them before the truck peeled out. Tell me you’re going to deal with this. I’m five seconds from calling 911.”