Page 117 of Sinful Bride

Vicious Betrayal is my next standalone dark mafia romance, where falling for the enemy was never part of the plan… and betraying him was never supposed to break her heart.

Irish enforcer x Bratva princess

FBI undercover betrayal

Unexpected pregnancy

Age gap

Lovers to enemies to lovers

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Now, enjoy the sneak peek from Chapter One…

Oksana

And then, as I spin around, rolling my hips against Bianca as we dance together, I see a man standing at the bar.

I wasn't looking for anyone in particular. My eyes catch on the bar almost by accident, sliding across the crowd. And then they stop. Because there's a man sitting there, alone, and he looks startlingly out of place wedged between a girl in a skirt so short I can almost see the curve of her ass and a guy with a shirt open almost to his navel and chains littering his sweaty chest.

He's older than anyone else in this club by at least a decade, maybe more. Late thirties, I'd guess, maybe forty. He's not dressed like the rest of the men here. He's not wearing a suit or a half-open silk shirt or a hipster-y skinny tie. He's in dark plain jeans and a black button-down with the first two buttons open, showing a hint of chest hair with a thin gold chain lying against it. I can see ink just below his collarbones and crawling up the muscled forearms visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and he looks incredibly fit, shoulders pushing at the seams of his shirt. His hair is a dark reddish-brown, curling slightly at the nape of his neck and behind his ears from the humidity in the club, and he has a short, well-kept beard on a strong jaw.

He looks a little weathered and tired, but something about that is strangely appealing. He's not hitting on anyone at the bar or hunting for a conquest. I have no idea if that's just because he doesn't need to or because he's disinterested, but that lack of prowling hunger catches my attention as much as his appearance. He isn't talking to anyone except occasionally, the bartender and even then it's brief—a word, maybe two, before he goes still again, watching the club with an expression I can't quite read from here. Not bored, exactly. Alert, like he's cataloging every person in the room. There's a stillness to him that doesn't match the chaos around him at all.

"Oksana." Bianca's voice cuts through, and I realize I've stopped dancing entirely. "What are you looking at?"

I don't answer right away. I can't decide if I want to share this pull I'm feeling toward a stranger who hasn't so much as glanced in my direction. But Talia follows my gaze anyway. Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and within seconds all three of them are looking too.

"Oh," Priya says, her voice low and appreciative. "Oh."

"Who is that?" Talia asks in my ear.

"I don't know," I say slowly, still watching him. He lifts his glass, filled with a small amount of some amber liquid, and takes a sip, his gaze still sliding across the room before returning to the bartender. His forearm flexes and his throat moves, Adam's apple bobbing as he leans back slightly on his barstool. His thighs look muscled in the tight fit of his jeans, and below them, he's wearing motorcycle boots that look like they've seen better days. "But look at him."

"He's like fifty," Bianca says. She wrinkles her nose a little.

"He's not fifty." But he is definitely a lot older than me. He lifts the glass again, and I focus on on his hands. They're long-fingered, veined, and I wonder if they're scarred. He looks like trouble, like a man who gets shit done, probably with a heavy hand. A burst of heat ripples out through me, and I feel my teeth sink into my lip.

I'm not a virgin. I've had a handful of hookups in club bathrooms and dark corners, messy kisses and fingers and hands in places I know they shouldn't be, and twice I've snuck away from my security to go further with someone. Once, my first time, was in the back seat of a Maserati in the parking garage behind a downtown club, and the other was up against the wall behind a fancy bar, an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot rolling against my shoe while he pounded into me. But those men were young, reckless as I am, and not that good at what they were trying to do to me, more focused on their pleasure than mine. I got off on it because of the danger and the thrill, not because of any skill on their parts.

"He's maybe forty. And he's gorgeous." I run my tongue over the sting on my bottom lip where I chewed it, still halfheartedly moving to the music while I try to decide what I'm going to do.

"He's giving off serious don't-fuck-with-me energy," Priya says. She's not wrong. Even the men around him seem to give him space without quite realizing they're doing it. Two guys in expensive suits laugh loudly a few stools down, and he doesn't so much as glance at them, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that suggests he's aware of everything happening around him regardless.

"That's exactly the energy I'm here for," I say. Bianca laughs delightedly.

"You're not serious."

"Watch me."