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“You can’t sleep in Cora’s old room because it’s not tradition.”
She frowns. “But Cora—”
“Was never my real fiancée. You are.” It’s a lie disguised as the truth. Cora was closer to being my wife than Francia will ever be. Even if I do have to go through with an actual wedding with her, I will never care about her in the ways that count.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It means that we have to do things the right way,” I tell her. “Or as right as possible under these circumstances. We can’t cohabitate until the wedding.”
She snorts. “This isn’t the Dark Ages. And I know you are no saint. Plenty of women have ‘cohabitated’ with you.”
“None of them have ever lived with me.”
Until Cora.
Which is why I won’t let Francia prance around my house and play Housewife. That role is reserved for one woman and one woman only.
“I’m not going to be disrespected by your staff and you. If I want to sleep in whatever room I want, then—”
“Then you’ll be breaking the agreement you made.”
Her mouth closes slowly. “How?”
“You agreed to fulfill the role of a Bratva wife,” I remind her. “That means submitting to all of my desires. Right now, I desire tradition.”
She wants to argue, but she knows I’m right.
I reach out and pluck the Save the Dates out of her hand and drop back down into my chair.
She watches me flip through the stack for a few seconds before she lets this battle go and forces lightness into her voice. “Already prepping for the big day?”
If by “big day” she means the day that I get to obliterate her from the planet and be with the woman I actually care about, then…
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m looking forward to it.”
12
CORA
I wake up to silence. No one is standing over me with an ax and a ghoulish smile. No one is dangling my best friend’s fate in my face. No one bursts in and rips my curtains open and orders me here and there.
That all comes as somewhat of a surprise.
Half of my night was spent tossing and turning, imagining the torture that was waiting for me in the morning. Would Mikhail come back and try groping me again? Maybe I’d wake up with Alexander sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair away from my forehead like a stepdad from aDatelineepisode.
But there’s nothing. Just the sound of birds singing outside my window.
“We fucking get it,” I mumble at the sparrows, rolling over and pulling the covers over my head. “You’re happy. Don’t rub it in.”
I stay buried under the covers for as long as I can until finally, I sigh and get up. I didn’t bring any clothes with me, but someone clearly prepared for my arrival. All of my favorite clothes from high school are still hanging in my closet. But next to those is a stash of brand new items with tags attached. They’re all in my current size. One pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, and hanger after hanger after hanger of demure, girlish dresses.
I try not to think about what it means that someone bought these clothes, knowing I’d be held prisoner here. Whoever it was had some skewed expectations. No way I’m pulling a June Cleaver and showing up to breakfast in a floral print dress. If that’s what Alexander wants, he better get out his lobotomy equipment.
But even prisoners need to eat. So after I steel myself for whatever my captors have waiting for me, I creep down the stairs towards the kitchen for something to eat. Coffee, at least.
I don’t see anyone in the sitting room and I can’t hear any voices. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a banana without being seen. A few more hours alone in my room sounds nice.
But luck hasn’t been on my side recently. Actually, Lady Luck has been a stone-cold bitch who seems to get her shits and giggles from kicking me when I’m already way down.
