The one closest to Barbie hisses, like her hand touched an iron. “Shlyukha.”
Being called a slut isn’t the most original insult, and honestly, it’s a bit rich, coming from her. And then, because I’m not going to be intimidated, I speak in English.
“Irrespective of your relationship with Mr. Petrov, I am his fiancée. I’m not about to throw you out of his bed, but you play games with me, and I might just change my mind.”
“Ty ne govorish' nam, chto delat’,” she argues. And I start to rethink if English was the right way to approach this, but the third one in their group seems to understand me just fine.
“Why?” she demands, but she can’t look me in the eye for long, a sign of who the badder bitch is.
It’s me.
I take a long exhale, resting my forearms on the table and leaning in close to talk quietly. “Who am I to deny my future husband anything? By all accounts, he is a powerful Alpha, and I am just one woman.” I grin, showing lots of teeth.
She parrots what I said in Russian to the others.
Barbie rapid-fires back at mysort offriend, using her hands to emphasize a few words. I get the gist of the conversation without needing an interpreter, and I feel slightly sad for her. Sergey’s obviously been whispering in her ear about one day becoming Mrs. Sergey Petrov.
In her diatribe, though, Barbie outs herself as an outsider, clearly not understanding how things work in the criminal world where power and influence rule supreme. Women, especially Omegas, are commodities. Possessions to be traded for statureand power. While Barbie has got a great rack and okay fashion sense, she obviously doesn’t bring much else to the table, or she’d already be married off.
I’ve watched enough movies, read plenty of books, then spent an inordinate amount of time researching anything involving Victor. I think I have a better understanding of the machinations of the darker side of the world, particularly in the world of organized crime. A wedding ring is old-school, but in this world, tradition is king. Throw in the fact Sergey has not made his claim permanently on her body, and reinforces the empathy I have that she’s not going to get the fairy-tale ending she was hoping for.
And yeah, I’m Little Miss Assumption today, but if he hasn’t claimed her, it also points to her probably being either a sex worker or a dancer that caught his eye. If her parents were important or influential people in the real world, the world of organized crime, they would have offered him alliances or opportunity, and he would have got his happily ever after with Barbie bride.
I’m not going to point out the obvious. Maybe me being here means she takes a second look at her life, but I doubt it, considering how hard she’s playing.
Listening to the three of them argue, I look down, my thoughts jumping to the bite on my own hand. But in doing so, I get snippy and impatient as I’m reminded of the life I’m being forced into.
“What’s up with her? I just said she could keep her position as lead knot-worker, and she’s still upset?” I ask. “Has he bitten her? Because, again, I don’t see how that would change our wedding plans.”
The Russian exchanged between the three of them is fast and vicious. They point and glare, talking as if I am not here, which works fine because my breakfast arrives.
I was starting to feel something like kindred sympathy towards them, but my opinion plummets when I notice I’m the only one eating. I’m firmly entrenched in the mindset of everything in moderation, including fucking food. It looks like the girls are into unhealthy eating habits to keep their svelte figures.
My opinion on them drops down further as they start giggling together with every bite I take. Since I’m so entertaining, I make sure to use all the butter, slathering it on my toast, as well as putting the entire serving of jam on my syrnikis. The schoolyard fun gets interrupted when a staff member suddenly appears, talking to Barbie.
In the conversation, I make out “Mr. Petrov” easily, and the way the girls race out of the room leads me to believe my little honeybee is home.
Reaching over for the pot of coffee, I doomscroll while finishing my breakfast. I’ve barely taken a sip, and the man of the moment appears.
Sergey Petrov is a good-looking Alpha. He must be close to six feet tall, and his physique suggests he’s more into my version of a healthy lifestyle than the girls’. I already was aware he is older than me, but there’s no suggestion of our age difference in his appearance, because Sergey likes to look after himself. And I think he also likes filler, Botox, and anything else available. It’s easy to look past his ebony color hair and his topaz eyes when you can see the real him shining back at you.
“Where’s my pretty girls?” he asks in English. His Russian accent makes his words sound overly harsh, or that could just be the way he speaks.
“They were just here. Perhaps they’ve gone up to your suite to welcome you back,” I say, holding his stare, but I can’t do it for long.
He takes a seat at the head of the table, and in moments, his staff has delivered everything he would need or possibly want. He has a plate of food in front of him, other plates within easy reach, and a large, ornate silver pot of tea. He eyes my coffee with disdain before he snatches it, tips it out onto the carpet, and refills it with black tea.
“My house, my rules.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” I offer back, quietly.
And not because I’m intimidated, but because I’m smart enough to be cautious. Two seconds in his presence, and it’s obvious it’s his way or the highway. It’s also clear in the way he looks at me that his arrogance could turn to violence in the blink of an eye.
“Good,” he barks before ignoring me as he starts to eat.
The way the table is set means we're in each other’s view. Not that he pays me any attention. I sip on my tea, which is putridly bitter and somehow intensifies with each sip I take. Exactly like his scent.
Sergey Petrov smells like coffee that has been burned, left in a pot all day, then burned again. It’s hard to sit still and act docile, when my alarm system is screaming at me to get away from him.
