Page 133 of Filthy Promises

I take a long sip of my wine. “You’re in an especially blunt mood tonight.”

“I had a fight with Daniel.” Her perfect facade cracks just slightly. “He thinks this whole arrangement is insane.”

“It is insane.”

“Yes, well.” She shrugs one elegant shoulder. “Insanity runs in both our families, doesn’t it?”

I actually laugh at that. “I can’t argue with you there.”

We order food neither of us particularly wants, going through the motions of this farce.

“How is your father?” she asks after the waiter leaves.

“Controlling. Demanding. Threatening.” I swirl my wine. “The usual.”

“Mine suggested I should get pregnant as soon as possible after the wedding,” she says with an amused chuckle. “To ‘secure the union.’”

The word “pregnant” makes me think of Rowan again. Why has that word been floating in my head lately?

“My father had similar suggestions,” I admit.

Anastasia studies me over the rim of her glass. “You don’t want this marriage any more than I do.”

“It’s not about want. It’s about duty.”

“Bullshit.” She leans forward. “If it were just about duty, you wouldn’t look like you’re being tortured right now. This is about your assistant.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Leave her out of this.”

“I can’t.” She sets her glass down carefully. “Because she’s the reason you’ll never be able to commit to this arrangement in the way our fathers want.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Anastasia’s perfectly manicured nail taps against the tablecloth. “I’ve seen how you look at her. I recognize it because it’s how I look at Daniel.”

An uncomfortable chill settles deep in my chest.

“You’re in love with her,” Anastasia states.

“I’m not—” I stop myself, the denial catching in my throat.

Am I? Is that what this constant preoccupation is? This need to know where she is, what she’s doing? This rage I feel when I think of her with anyone else?

This pain when she pulls away?

Fuck.

“You are,” Anastasia says, not unkindly. “And that complicates things.”

“It changes nothing,” I say firmly. “I have responsibilities. Obligations.”

“To the Bratva. To your father. I understand.” She nods. “I have the same obligations.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“We do.” She takes a delicate bite of her salad. “Which is why I’m proposing we modify our arrangement.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

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