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Fucker.
He knew I wasn’t into this kind of shit, and had no doubt, especially by the cocky look on his face, that he found it hilarious that I was annoyed by this bachelor party.
When I didn’t respond, Dmitry exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and chuckled. I lowered myself down and sat on the other chair beside him.
Long seconds passed before he said, “never took you for the protective type.” His voice was low, his focus on the crowd.
“She’s an extension of me,” I said flatly.
“Hmm,” he responded and I made a gruff noise in my throat of irritation.
“Insulting her is no different than a motherfucker doing it right to my face, and you know how I deal with a ballsy bastard who does that.”
Dmitry glanced at me, his expression void of emotion aside from a lone eyebrow cocking up. “Okay,” he said but I could hear the amusement in his voice.
I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you were staring at her when we were at Bianchi’s house? Or how you wanted to break her father’s hand when he grabbed her?” Dmitry lifted his brow again and brought his cigar to his mouth, taking a few puffs, a thick cloud of smoke trailing out of the corners of his mouth.
I clenched my jaw and looked away, watching as Kirill stood against the bar, a partially naked woman sitting on his lap. He palmed one of her tits, his other hand curled around a bottle of vodka. His neck sported one hell of a handprint, and I felt sadistic pleasure fill me.
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have been looking at her the same way,” I murmured. Lucky for Dmitry, I hadn’t seen him eye-fucking Amara. If I had, I probably would have beat his ass until he was black and blue. “She’s beautiful.”
I hadn’t been able to get her off my mind since we left the West Coast, and the very thought of any other female had my dick acting like a turtle afraid and tucking into itself. A pathetic example, but one that was pretty fucking accurate.
Not that I had the time, energy, or hell, even the fucking desire to test out the theory that my cock now thoroughly belonged to Amara, apparently. I just had no appetite for anyone but my pretty young fiancé.
But we’d been neck deep in Bratva shit, cleaning up our father’s hectic and chaotic dealings, the kind of shit that would have had the Desolation branch imploding if it stayed on that path. Although we’d known how crazed our father had been, we hadn’t realized the extent of his lunacy until we’d started going through everything.
“You know I would’ve been all in and followed through with the plan whether Bianchi’s daughter was a hag or gorgeous.”
Dmitry made a deep sound in his throat and I looked over to watch him take a puff off his cigar, one of his fingers from his other hand tapping on the side of his glass as he looked around the room.
“You know I never doubted you or your commitment.” He looked at me then. “I knew you would’ve followed through no matter what. It’s just a plus she’s a hot piece of ass, huh?”
I felt the hand that was curled around the armrest tighten against the leather, my nails digging into the material as annoyance filled me. “Watch it,” I growled. Dmitry glanced at me and smirked.
Fuck, what was going on with me?
Even hearing my brother talking about Amara that way, pointing out how gorgeous she was, had jealous rage filling me. The bastard liked getting under my skin.
I let my gaze go over to Kirill once more. He was nursing that vodka, every once in while lifting his hand to rub his neck. But he was smart not to look in my direction. I was still fuming from what he said, liable to go off the rails again at the slightest provocation.
“I have to get out of here.” I stood and looked over at Dmitry, seeing him already watching me.
“It’s your party and you’re just gonna up and leave?” Although my brother questioned me, his tone told me he really didn’t give a shit one way or the other if I was here.
I made a noncommittal sound, and he reached his hand out. I clapped my palm against his, told him I’d talk to him later, and then headed out. I felt my blood boiling, aggression still pumping through my veins after not only hearing Dmitry talk about how hot my fiancé was, but also the shit with Kirill, allthe Bratva stress, and the fucking bullshit still eating at me with Amara’s father.
I knew Amara was afraid of Marco. I could see the way she looked at him, the timid demeanor that her mother and sister also held. It was one that had been trained into them out of fear.
And I didn’t want my future wife to be afraid. I needed someone who was as strong as I was, who would stand beside me and watch as I burned the city to the ground and tallied up the bodies that littered our feet.
And I felt–sensed–she had that inside of her. I just needed to bring it forth, let her see that even in the darkness you didn’t have to be afraid, not if you ruled it.
I ignored everyone as I headed out of the backroom, took a left after I shut the door behind me, and made my way toward the backdoor that would lead to the alleyway behind the club.
I pushed open the bar on the door, stepped outside, an echoingbangechoing off the brick building behind me. The back alley of the club held the dumpsters, along with two damn near burnt out street lights, one in each corner, and a chain-link fence lining the entire length of the building ahead of me.
