Page 32 of Sadistic

"It's fine, Elfe." Revna moves away from me, toward the woman. "We're done here."

"Are we?" I catch her hand as she passes. "Two weeks, little wolf. Use them wisely."

She pulls free, but not before I feel her pulse racing. "I intend to."

They leave together, and I watch them go.

My phone buzzes—Mikhail with updates, my parents with questions, the world demanding attention.

But I stay in the yard a moment longer, smelling her perfume on the air.

Vanilla and something floral, layered over the scent of another man.

That will change.

Everything will change over the next two weeks.

CHAPTER THREE

Revna

Doran walks back inside the clubhouse like he owns it, leaving me in the yard with my heart hammering and my mind racing.

"Hey, you okay?" Elfe reappears in the doorway, dark eyes concerned. "That looked... intense."

"I need a drink."

"Say no more." She glances back inside where voices are rising again—probably arguing about wedding details I don't care about. "Let's get out of here before they realize we're gone."

We slip around the side of the building toward Bubba's.

The bar shares a wall with the clubhouse, but has its own entrance, its own crowd.

It's where the hang arounds and prospects drink, where the old ladies gossip, where deals get made that don't require a full table vote.

It's also where Elfe's worked since she turned eighteen, much to her father’s dismay.

"Your dad is still trying to convince you to quit?" I ask as she unlocks the employee entrance.

"Every fucking week." She flips on lights, illuminating the familiar space—scarred wooden bar, pool tables, booth seats, a few of them patched with duct tape from drunken patrons. "Says it's not safe for the daughter of a member to be serving drinks to wannabes and rejects."

"What does your mom say?"

"That I'm an adult who can make her own choices." Elfe moves behind the bar like she belongs there. "Also that Dad's a hypocrite since we all know my mom used to be ahoraback in the day."

The main door's locked but she doesn't bother opening it.

This is a private therapy session, not business hours.

She pours two shots of whiskey without asking what I want.

Good Irish stuff from the top shelf—probably Liam Mackenzie's brand, which feels ironically appropriate given who I'm marrying.

"So." She slides my shot across. "The Russian prince finally collected his prize."

I down the whiskey in one burn. "Half Russian, half Irish. And I'm not a prize."

"Could've fooled me with that ring." She gestures at my hand. "Fuck, Rev. That thing could finance a small country."

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