Page 77 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"And a gun."
"Very aggressive weeds in Hawaii."
Mary looked at me.
I shrugged. "I've decided not to ask questions before coffee."
It had been three days since Vegas. The wedding had taken approximately twelve minutes in a chapel that had the overwhelming scent of three alphas who found their match. Artem had worn a suit. I'd worn a dress Mary had found in a shop two hours before the ceremony, pale pink and simple and not at all the kind of thing a Bratva wife was supposed to wear.
"Perfect," Mary had said. "You look like you're marrying him because you want to, not because anyone told you to."
"That's the idea."
Artem had held my hands through the whole thing. His palms were so damp that I'd nearly called it off just to spare him, but then he'd looked at me while the officiant was still talking and said, very quietly, "Thank you.”
Afterward, Ivan had produced a bottle of champagne and Gregor had held my shoulders and whispered, “You’re ours.”
“I am,” I said.
Now we were in Hawaii because Artem had announced that real weddings required real honeymoons, and Ivan had added that fake weddings required real honeymoons too, and Mary had pointed out that she was technically the fake bride and had therefore earned a tropical holiday by default.
Who knew that the Petrov’s owned a villa in Hawaii? Not me. And now Mary decided this is where she’d want to stay once her part of the deal was done.
I disapproved.
The estate had its own private stretch of coastline. Black rocks below the cliff, waves smashing into white spray, the sea so blue it looked fake. Birds in the palms.
The scent of my alphas now mixed with salt, sunscreen and the faint charcoal smell of Gregor grilling fresh fish while the villa chef stood beside him waiting to take over.
I was on a sun lounger, the heat sinking into muscles I'd been clenching for three years. Mary was on the one beside me, applying sunscreen with the grim focus of someone going into battle. Between us, under an umbrella big enough to shade a small wedding party, Fergus slept at my side.
"I'm thinking about painting my room," Mary said, capping the sunscreen. "The one in Surrey. Artem said I could have any room in the east wing and I took the one with the balcony, but the walls are beige. Aggressively beige. The room looks like someone weaponised oatmeal."
"Paint it whatever you want."
"Even black?"
"If you're going through a phase."
"What if I paint it pink? Really, really pink. The kind of pink that makes people uncomfortable."
"Then I'll buy you a matching duvet and we'll call it a statement."
Mary grinned and settled back against her cushion. "I went from Dad's prisoner to fake Bratva bride to permanent houseguest in a matter of weeks. It's a lot."
"Take the time." I watched Mac's chest rise and fall. "You're family now. No expiration date."
She was quiet for a moment. The waves filled the silence. “I met someone in Vegas.”
“How did you manage that without the news getting back to me?”
She grinned. “I was strategic with the guard changeover.”
I shook my head. “Someone could have kidnapped you.”
“Nobody knows me to kidnap me.” She pushed her hands over her head and sighed. “He lives in Boston.”
“Nice.”
