Page 20 of Arranged Curves for the Bratva
This, I believe, is the exact moment I realize just how cunning Lilibeth can be. She’s cheerful and sweet and all that, yes, but she’s got a razor-sharp sense of observation. It’s impressive; I’ll give her that.
“Brutal.” I lean closer and hiss in her ear. Suddenly, we’re standing so close and the room around us quietens. I feel her shiver as I pull back.
She takes a moment to collect herself before turning to a moving waiter, who replaces her now-empty glass with another one.
***
We move deeper into the room, and I observe how the crowd continues to part for us—for me—in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I know why they do. They part for her. The Orlov sister's return to society hasn't gone unnoticed, and her marriage to me has become the talk of the town.
With each introduction, I watch her brighten like the star attraction she is. She throws in a compliment here, a reference to shared history there. She asks the Belgian art dealer about his daughter's ballet recital, and suddenly he's inviting us to a private showing next month. She mentions a specific vintage to the wine importer, something she tried on her travels through Italy, and he's offering to send a case to my home.
She has this way about her, where even though she hasn’t been a part of this Bratva scene in over two years, she fits right back in.
I watch as Mrs. Popov tugs at her husband’s arm. “Darling…” she urges silently with her eyes. Her husband pulls away his arm, and I watch Lilibeth furrow her brows ever so slightly. Mr. Popov has been talking to our group for quite sometime now, ignoring his wife’s silent commands. From the looks of it, he’s barely involving her, and she’s feeling left out.
The next thing I know, Lilibeth slides over to Mrs. Popov’s side. “Dear god, your glass is empty!” Her cheerful voice carries over the crowd, and heads turn to see who the Orlov girl is lathering with attention. “I must bring you another.”
“Oh no, dear, I really mustn’t.” Mrs. Popov blushes as her husband now turns his focus to her glass and insists she refill it.
“So,” Lilibeth asks, her eyes darting between the couple, “how ever did you two meet?”
As Mr. Popov strolls down memory lane, he slides an arm around his wife’s waist, and I watch Mrs. Popov’s face light up, any mention of leaving completely forgotten.
I see what Lilibeth did there. She led by example and showed her husband where his priorities should lie. She flipped the conversation from being the center of attention to getting Mrs. Popov to talk about herself instead, allowing her to feel like she belongs.
As a crowd gathers around the couple, Lilibeth extracts herself and makes her way over to me with a smile. She barely reaches my side when Anton Yakov, my most irritating rival, walks up to us.
“Letvin,” he says through a drunken gaze. His gaze lingers inappropriately on Lilibeth's curves. “I see you've brought fresh blood to our little gathering.”
I hate the way he looks at her, and I am about to talk him away when Lilibeth extends her hand. “Lilibeth Orlov. Not fresh blood at all, I assure you. My family has been cleaning up messes in this city since before either of us was born.”
Yakov's smile freezes at her name. “You…you—” Of course, he’s no fool. The Orlov-Zolotov alliance could wipe out his entire life’s work within an hour.
“My wife,” I say with a pleased growl, and give Lilibeth my arm. To my surprise, she takes it and levels an ice-cold stare at the very surprised Yakov before I lead her away.
This whole night, I’ve observed a spark and sass in Lilibeth that claws at my mind, urging it to dig deeper. She’s so different from that trembling mess I saw on our wedding night, and I wonder which version of Lilibeth is closest to the truth. I want to understand her, to know her, to test her. For that, I know I have to get her to myself.
The orchestra begins a waltz, and I make a decision. “Dance with me.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly at my commanding tone. “Always so polite with your requests, Agafon.”
“Would a please have made it better?” I retort as I fling out my hand in an exaggerated motion.
“Oh, absolutely,” she says, smirking as she takes it. “Aplease, a bow, maybe a sonnet about my eyes. You know, the basics.”
I walk her onto the floor and twirl her in until my hands rest on her waist and shoulder. She looks up at me and winks. Literally,winks.
“I don’t know what basics you grew up with, but where I come from, a sonnet about a woman’s eyes is very eighteenth century,” I tease with a straight face as I lead her into a waltz.
“Maybe we can learn something from the past, don’t you think?” She follows my lead and tilts her neck away from me as I drop her low. When she does, I catch the scent of that delicatefloral perfume from the nape of her neck, and my heart nearly lurches.
I sweep her up, and when she risks losing her balance, I pull her close with a tight hand on her lower back. Once she regains her balance, I wait for her to move back, but she stands dangerously close, and my hand remains dangerously low. This time, she doesn’t cower like she did in what she presumed wasour bedroomon our wedding night.
I decide to test her and see if she’ll be bolder this time around on similar grounds.
“I don’t recall you having such a fond take for borrowing ancient traditions on our wedding night. What was it you called the concept of consummating a marriage, again? Archaic?”
Just like that, her eyes widen and she blushes as she gasps. Not so bold now, is she?
