“Ryker.”
“Yeah?” I look back over my shoulder.
“Interrupt my wife’s orgasm again, and I’ll punch you in the dick.”
That makes me laugh, though I know Killian isn’t attempting to be funny. “Noted.”
Killian is the last man I expected to see happily married. Not that my brother’s unexpected happiness fills me with some sort of hope.
My marriage is a means to an end. Nothing more. And my little songbird is going to make my dreams come true.
Whether she likes it or not.
CHAPTER SIX
Sasha
The Vegas sunshinethat greets me the moment I open my eyes mocks my dark mood.
Today is Katarina’s wedding.
I’m sure she’s in a far worse state than myself, but still. Her about-to-be husband made it clear that he’d let me know exactly how he’s going to punish me, after I become his sister-in-law.
The suspense is near killing me.
Asshole.
I sit up in bed, catching my reflection in the mirror. I’ve got dark circles under my eyes from the lack of sleep the past few nights.
Between worrying about Ryker and trying to come up with a new escape plan, I’ve barely slept.
Dimitri’s questions yesterday didn’t help. There was a bunch of cryptic bullshit about how I “felt” about Ryker. Ifeellike he’s the devil in an Armani suit.
I scrub my hands down my pale skin.
It’s all right. I don’t need to look good, I just need to get up there and stand next to my sister.
Pretend to be the dutiful bridesmaid.
And search for an opportunity to escape. Which is such a long shot.
With a groan, I push myself out of bed. The wedding is scheduled for midafternoon. It’s already late morning.
The Smiths offered to have the ceremony in the garden of their home, but Dimitri chose a local chapel for the service instead.
I’m sure he thought adding a religious element made the union more meaningful, and maybe it does. Maybe it will help Katarina better accept her future. Enter into the arrangement with grace.
I turn on the shower. Enter is the wrong word. The proper term is forced. There can be no mistaking that and my gut twists again, trying to imagine how I’d feel if I were her.
I scrub myself down, using a whole bunch of fancy face cream to try and treat my puffy skin.
Then, wrapping myself in a robe, I head out to the kitchen to make myself a cappuccino.
I’ll give this apartment credit on one account. It’s equipped with excellent appliances along with the top-of-the-line finishes.
Making my way out into the kitchen, I fill the milk container to froth the milk, and then fire up the espresso maker, the smell of the double shot of espresso already infusing me with a bit of fortification.
I think I’m going to need a second cup. I take the large mug, gulping down the foamy milk and dark espresso with a sigh. Small pleasures.
