Page 36 of Vicious Secrets
“Good news,” she whispers into my ear as she leans over the back of my chair. She wraps her arms around my shoulders. “I don’t think people suspect I’m a Bratva spy. I choked on expensive vodka. Twice.”
I hide my smile with the rim of my glass. “Perfect.”
Robyn chuckles. “Although I’d rather be known as an enemy than a payment.”
Without thinking, I place one of my hands over her own. My palm itches, and my fingers want to curl away, but the warmth seeping through my shirt soothes a different type of ache. Robyn’s eyes dart to where I’ve pinned her over my collarbone.
“I’ve never looked at you as a payment.”
She purses her lips. “Because in your world, all brides are payments.”
I settle back in the chair and nod once. Lying to her isn’t going to do me any good, and she’s technically correct.
Robyn’s question reinforces the forgery of our relationship. We’ve already proven we can coexist. But we’ll never have the same level of trust other arranged marriages have. Robyn will always—rightfully—view me as a man she’s shielding her family from.
If I’m insanely lucky and discover the holy grail or solve the unsolvable, maybe that’ll win me a deeper spot in her heart. I’m loyal to a fault, and on the day I spoke my marriage vows, Robyn instantly gained my loyalty. Now she’s risking unfreezing my fucking heart.
Robyn stiffens in the corner of my eye. I turn my attention in the direction of what she’s looking at and spot Ari speaking with Bruno. If Ari ever drags my angelic wife into his hyperactive web of fuckery, I’ll kill him with my bare hands in front of Danny.
“Why wouldn’t you let him dance with me at our wedding?”
“Because you’re smart enough to know who to fear. I wasn’t going to torture you with close contact with an Enforcer after putting you on a pedestal all day.” I toss back the rest of my drink.
Robyn’s hand slips away, and she sinks down onto the arm of the chair, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
Either she doesn’t believe me, or she suspects I have an ulterior motive for what she wrongly perceives as softness. What fucking groom wants to hand over their bride to another man on their wedding day?
“Fuck it. We’ve put on the show long enough. Let’s go home.”
She nods and follows me through the motions of saying goodnight to Bruno and his wife.
Once we’re in the back seat of the car, a depressing silence fills the private cabin. We both stare out our own windows and occasionally check our phones.
A different and newer type of antsy feeling starts in my arms, encouraging me to touch her. Would she like it if I held her hand? Or if I stroked my fingers along her thigh? Do either of those touches feel good to her?
The want to soothe her worries from earlier in the night gnaws at me again. The untethered emotion in her eyes when I told her I’m always a target seared straight into my soul upon realizing she wasn’t acting. I didn’t see anything near that level of fear in her eyes when Ari snarled at her.
I need to slap some sense into myself. Robyn’s giving me exactly what I asked for. I’m getting caught up in my own game because, for several wild moments, it didn’t sicken me to be touched by someone.
“Robyn?” I ask, my voice raspier than I expected. Jesus, how much did I drink tonight? I don’t feel drunk.
She hums and looks over at me. The street lights cast a glowing outline over her red dress.
“You were perfect tonight.”
She smiles softly. “Thanks, Boss.”
I wince.
“Sorry.” She chuckles and looks back out the window.
“Should I have kept Oscar’s debt a secret?”
Robyn turns her head slowly and blinks at me. Her mouth opens and closes several times, and her eyes take on a glossy sheen. Shifting in her seat, her throat bobs as she swallows.
Something obnoxious tugs on my heart, trying to drag it out from under my ribs.
What? So Cupid can shoot his shot? Fuck off.
