It’s the first we’ve spoken since we sat down. Not that the silence hasn’t been nice, but her huffing and puffing is almost more annoying than her bitching.
“I thought we agreed to have dinner in peace,” she says, open-mouth chewing on her asparagus.
My jaw tenses. Jenica has a dual personality. The plastic facade she carries in public is very different from the woman she is at home. Unfortunately, I have to tolerate both.
Before I can say anything in response, she practically slams her fork down on the table. “Would it kill you to treat me like I’m actually your wife?”
“In what way?”
“You don’t compliment me. Ever. Half the time, I feel like you’re not even looking at me.”
“I’m sorry. I was unaware that our arrangement included putting you on a pedestal. Which, to be honest, I already do. You are living like royalty right now.”
“What good are expensive dresses and sexy lingerie if no one is appreciating it?” she cries. “If no one is appreciatingme?You are the first man I’ve ever been with that doesn’t?—”
I cut her off. “That doesn’t what? Worship you? I don’t know if you noticed, Jenica, but I don’t worship anyone. And even if I lowered myself enough to do so, it wouldn’t start with a mail-order bride.”
I go back to eating.
“You don’t touch me,” she says, her voice softer now. It forces my eyes to drag up to her face. Her expression is hard and guarded. But there is something behind it, something I don’t want to explore.
“That was also not part of the deal.”
“I am your wife,” she says with as much venom as she can muster. “Whether you like it or not. Iamyourwife.”
“Not by choice.” I take a sip of red wine. “Neither one of us had a choice.”
She swallows and collects herself. Bratva women don’t have the luxury of being soft. When she speaks next, all emotion has already drained from her voice. “How was your trip to Montana?”
“Why?” I ask flatly.
“I’m trying to make conversation. To ask you about work. Or am I not allowed to do that either?”
“It wasn’t a work trip,” I say, wiping my mouth.
She is holding her glass a few inches from her mouth, her eyes wide on me. “But you said?—”
“I lied.”
She blinks and takes a sip. “So if it wasn’t a business trip, then what were you?—”
“Amara and her family have been living there.”
It takes her a while to remember how to form words. “Amara,” she echoes.
“I went there to get her.”
She sets her glass down. “And what did you need to get her for?” she asks carefully, though it’s very obvious just how pissed she is.
It’s also obvious that I don’t give a flying fuck.
“Because she’s pregnant. And she’s not safe there. So I brought her back with me.”
“She’s in New York,” Jenica asks, though it comes out like a statement.
“That’s what I said.”
“Why would you bring her here?” Her tone is still forcedly calm, but she can’t quite keep the emotion off her face this time. “You do realize how that looks.”
