The thought hits me sideways, inappropriate and absurd, but it's there. Brad with his soft hands and protein shake muscles, his cheap cologne and cheaper lines. This man is the opposite of everything Brad pretended to be online.
Dangerous.
Real.
And he just called me his wife.
"Yourwife?" The accented voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. The man in the too-tight suit is staring at us, his face mottled with anger and suspicion. "Since when?"
"Since I married her." The stranger's voice is flat, bored almost, like he's discussing the weather instead of my life. He finally turns away from me and it’s like being thrown back into the real world. "Is that a problem, Valentin?"
There's a threat buried in those words. I can hear it even if I don't understand it, and apparently Valentin can too because he lowers his weapon fully before holstering it beneath his jacket.
"No. No problem." But his eyes narrow. "You didn't mention a wife."
"I don't mention a lot of things." The stranger's hand is still on my waist, fingers digging in just slightly. A warning,play along, or you die. "My personal life isn't your concern."
"Of course not." Valentin's smile is thin and doesn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations."
No one believes this.
I can see it in the way the men are still holding their weapons, still watching me like I'm a problem that needs to be solved. My pulse is hammering so hard I'm sure they can all hear it.
The stranger must sense it too because his hand moves from my waist to my hip, thumb stroking slowly over the fabric of my dress. It feels like ownership, which I guess is the point. We are trying to sell something here, after all. I take a steadying breath through my nose and relax into his side.
"We're done here," he says, still in that flat, bored tone. "My men will contact you about the next shipment."
"Of course." Valentin gestures to his men, and they start moving toward the crates, lifting them with practiced efficiency. But he doesn't leave, instead looking me over one more time. I curve my arm around the stranger’s waist and lift my other hand to his chest. "You'll vouch for her discretion?"
The stranger's eyes narrow, his voice dropping, going colder. "Are you questioning my ability to choose an appropriate wife, Valentin? Because that would be an overstep on your part."
Valentin pales. "Fair enough." He nods once, sharply, then finally turns toward the door. His men follow, carrying the cratesbetween them. The metal door slams shut behind them, and suddenly the warehouse is much quieter.
The four men who were standing behind the stranger are still here, still watching me with expressions that range from curious to hostile. One of them; older, with a scar running through his eyebrow, crosses his arms and says something in that same language I heard through the door.
Russian, maybe? I don't know. I failed Spanish in high school; Eastern European languages are way beyond me.
The stranger responds in the same language, his tone clipped and final. Whatever he says makes the scarred man's eyebrows rise, but he nods and jerks his head toward the others. They file out through a different door, leaving us alone.
Us.
Me and this man whose name I don't even know.
He's still holding me. His hand hasn't moved from my hip, and now that we're alone, the possessive weight of it feels even more pronounced.
"You can let go of me now," I manage, my voice shaking.
He doesn't.
Instead, he studies me with those cold grey eyes, his expression unreadable. "Can I?"
"They're gone. You don't have to—" I try to step back, but his grip tightens.
"Don't." It's not loud, but it stops me cold. "Do you have any idea what you just walked into?"
"I—" My mouth is dry. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"The bathroom." He repeats it like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. Which, to be fair, it probably is. "You walked into an active arms deal because you were looking for a bathroom."
