“Idon’t want to go.”
Ayla’s voice cuts through the bedroom like a thrown knife. I pause mid-cufflink, glance up and stare at her standing by the closet in nothing but blue underwear and a scowl.
Here we go again.
Ever since she’s been made mine, made the Pakhan’s queen, she’s developed an impressive habit of barking orders at me like she runs the fucking Bratva.
I don’t want to do that.
I’m not wearing this.
Tell them no.
Now she’s standing there with her arms folded over her chest, glaring at me like I personally invented Angelo Amato’s wedding celebration just to ruin her life.
Half the time I want to pin her to the wall and remind her who’s in charge. The other half…I like it. Too much.
I exhale through my nose. “It’s Angelo’s wedding, Beda. We have to go.”
“Aren’t they already married?”
“Technically, yes. This is the celebration.”
She narrows her eyes.
“And if I don’t go,” I add, turning to face her, “I’ll have missed yet another major Amato family event, and those Italians are emotional enough without Angelo pouting on top of you pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” she snaps. “I have cramps. There’s a difference. And you’re going to try to make me wear a dress and heels, and I don’t want to wear that.”
Cramps.
That takes some of the fight out of me.
Ayla throws herself onto the bed with all the grace of a wounded queen and lands dramatically in the middle of the sheets, one arm flung over her face.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
There was a time she never would’ve done this in front of me. Never would’ve let herself be this unguarded. This sharp, pouty, dramatic version of her is something she only lets me see, and the fact that she does, does something dark and possessive to my chest.
I move to the bed and sit beside her, sliding an arm around her waist.
My hand brushes her lower stomach.
She peeks at me from under her arm. “Don’t.”
I rub lightly anyway, feeling the tension there. “I know you’re going through—”
“Don’t say it.”
I huff a laugh. “Fine. I know you’re going throughsomethingright now.”
“That is not the problem.”
“Maybe not, but it isn’t helping.”
She grumbles something under her breath that sounds like an insult.
I ignore it.
