Page 66 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

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“I told you marrying her wasn’t a good idea,” Ruslan says beside me. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

Ignoring him, I glance at my wristwatch. It’s five p.m. already, which is two hours since Volkov sent those pictures of her meeting up Emiliano. Whatever they’re discussing must be really important seeing as she isn’t home yet.

My mind keeps circling back to that night at the club when she convinced me she wasn’t working for anyone and everything in that file was a setup. Fury simmers beneath my skin at the knowledge she snuck out to meet with that asshole behind my back.

She lied to me.

Every fucking thing between us has been a lie from the start.

“What are you going to do when she gets back?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to kill her.”

I lower my head and rub my fingers over my skull to lighten the tension building inside me. Between Audrey’s betrayal, the hollow ache beneath my ribs, and my brother’s annoying voice, I feel the strong need to break something, to drive my fists into the wall over and over until I can breathe again.

I haven’t lost my cool in years. I’ve always been calm and calculating, but Audrey’s managed to bring out the side of me that’s hungry for blood.

Raising my head, I look at Ruslan. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“And miss this show?” His eyes glint with mischief. He’s only ever this way with me. With everyone else, he’s a cold-blooded, heartless bastard. Too bad my marriage won’t be the source of his entertainment tonight.

“Leave before I have you thrown out.”

He chuckles. “Right, as if your men would have the guts to lay their hands on me.” Ruslan studies me for another second, probably waiting for me to change my mind, and then he lets out a dramatic sigh and pushes himself off the couch. “Fine. I’ll leave.” He straightens his jacket and starts toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Just remember one thing.”

I cock my brows, already knowing what he wants to say.

“If she’s working with Emiliano, she’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear.”

The words linger in the room long after the door shuts behind him. Silence settles over my home office. It’s suffocating.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey and finish the entire thing in one gulp, groaning as the liquid burns down my throat and heats up my stomach. Still, it barely does anything to calm the storm I feel inside.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

By the twentieth, I’m standing by the window overlooking the front driveway, my hands clasped behind my back so tightly my knuckles ache as I wait for my wife to come home.

I don’t know how much longer it takes. Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. But the sound of tires crunching over gravel pulls my attention outside as a black Mercedes rolls through the iron gates.

My chest tightens.

She’s home.

I watch as the car comes to a stop in front of the mansion. For several long seconds, the driver’s door doesn’t open. When it finally does, Audrey steps outside. I leave the window and return to my chair, waiting for her to come upstairs, because I know the first thing she’ll do is find me.

Just like I predicted, my door flies open minutes later and Audrey walks in with a wide smile on her face.

That smile may have fooled me before, but it doesn’t now.

Her hazel eyes don’t have their usual gleam. Her bun is messy and her shoulders sag as if she’s carrying an invisible weight.

A sharp ache twists beneath my ribs. For one reckless second, I want to smile back at her and ask if she’s okay. I want to pull her into my arms, kiss her forehead, and tell her how my day was.

But then the photos of her standing with Emiliano flash through my head, and every ounce of softness I feel toward her is buried beneath the rage simmering inside me.

“Where have you been?”