Page 35 of Sadistic

"Maybe I should." She stands, smooths her perfect hair. "But first—a word of advice? Your Russian doesn't share. Not his toys, not his territory, and definitely not his wife. Whatever Njal's planning, it won't end well for him."

"I'll talk to him," I say.

"No, you won't." Her smile turns knowing. "Because that would require contact, and I'm betting Doran's already made the rules clear. Hasn't he?"

She's right and we both know it.

"Good luck, Revna. You're going to need it." She heads for the door, pauses. "Oh, and the sex is mediocre. In case you were wondering what you'll be missing."

The door closes behind her with a final click.

"Well," Elfe says after a moment. "That was fun."

I drop my head to the table. "Four months. They've been together for four months and I had no clue."

"You and Njal weren't exclusive, and neither was she and him. If I had to bet?—"

"I know. I know we weren't, but..." I sit up, reach for the bottle. "I thought what we had meant something. Turns out he was already auditioning for my replacement."

"Or trying to forget you."

"Same difference."

"It's really not." Elfe takes the bottle before I can pour another shot. "Look, I know this sucks. All of it. But Ingrid's right about one thing—if Njal tries something stupid, Doran won't hesitate."

"You think he'd kill him?"

"I think a man who eliminated thirteen guys just for asking you out wouldn't think twice about eliminating one who actually had you."

The truth of that sits heavy between us.

I think about Njal, drunk and desperate, potentially planning something that would get him killed.

Then, I think about Doran, possessive and violent, waiting for an excuse.

"I can't let that happen," I say.

"You can't stop it either. Not without making things worse." Elfe squeezes my hand. "This is bigger than you and Njal now. It's about the club, the alliance, everyone's survival."

"When did you get so practical?"

"When I spent three years watching this world chew people up." She glances toward the clubhouse. "Speaking of which, we should probably head back before someone notices you're gone."

"Let them notice."

"Rev—"

"I'm serious. In two weeks, I'll be Doran Volkolv's wife. Every move monitored, every choice scrutinized. Right now, I just want to sit in this shitty bar with my friend and pretend none of this is happening."

"Okay." She slides the bottle back. "But we're switching to beer. Last thing you need is to face your future husband shit-faced."

The bottle sits between us, amber liquid catching the bar's dim lights. My hands won't stop shaking.

"Four months," I repeat, because somehow saying it out loud might make it make sense. "He was with her while still showing up at my apartment at 2 AM."

"Men are shit," Elfe says simply.

"He used to trace poems on my back. Said my skin was like paper and he was writing our story." I laugh, but it sounds broken. "Guess he was writing a different story with her."

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