Page 38 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
I’ll never be the same again.
I’m not the Cartier Black who walked into Gianna’s hospital room to visit my best friend and her twins. I’m the heroine of myown romance novel, the one who falls for the bad boy with the scar on his top lip and realizes that he has a heart of gold when it comes to his woman.
Happy ever after?
I can’t even think about it. I don’t know anything about Andrej Ivanov. Not really. All I do know is that he makes me feel how I’ve never felt before. He makes me feel things that I never knew were missing from my life.
He’s a drug, and I’m already addicted.
I can’t see my clothes.
Fuck, fuck,fuck!
What am I supposed to do now?
But then I spot the open door leading to what appears to be a walk-in closet. Perhaps I could borrow some sweatpants and a hoodie to get me to the shelter. It’ll give Mika something to snicker about at the very least.
I cross the room and pause in the doorway. I was expecting to see rows of immaculate designer suits, expensive shirts, and shelves filled with polished shoes. But instead, one half of the closet is filled with women’s clothes.
Did Andrej buy them for me?
I quash the thought before I get any ideas of this being a permanent thing. He probably keeps a selection of women’s attire for occasions just like this one.
I don’t like this thought either, but whatever the reason, it’ll beat sweatpants and a hoodie that smells of Andrej Ivanov. I’m late, and Mika sounded desperate.
The bad boy has thought of every eventuality.
There are Lycra tights for jogging around the park, silky floor-length gowns for evening events, pant suits worthy of an interview with the editor ofVoguemagazine, and sundresses for jaunts to the beach.
I settle for a pair of white pants and a floral blouse. Simple but oh-so-obviously expensive from the feel of the fabric against my skin. And a perfect fit.
Pulling on the cowboy boots—I’m not ditching those babies—I check out my reflection in the full-length mirror one last time, grab my phone, and head through the apartment toward the elevator.
Stopping when I spot the dark-haired woman watching me from behind the breakfast bar, where coffee is brewing in the machine.
“Who are you?” My voice sounds fake for some reason, likeI’mthe intruder invadingherspace, and I wish I could take it back because now I sound guilty, when I haven’t done anything wrong.
I sense my eyes narrowing as they dart around the living room for a glimpse of jet-black hair and a scarred lip curled into a lazy smile. Andrej isn’t there. The relief that he and this woman were not getting cozy together while I slept in his bed leaves me feeling breathless and dizzy.
“Ivana.” She answers the question bluntly. Her expression is neutral as she fills two mugs with steaming black liquid and slides one across the counter towards me.
I instinctively take it, cupping it in both hands, my body moving from muscle memory. Sipping the black liquid gives me a moment to study the woman in Andrej’s kitchen.
She’s around my age or maybe a little older, mid-twenties perhaps. Her black hair is cut into a choppy bob with lurid green streaks. She has olive skin, her dark eyes elongated by theWicked-green flicks on her upper lids, and a dark mark beneath her left eye that looks like a tattoo. She wears a beaten-up black leather jacket over a black sweater. I don’t need to see her feet to picture the Doc Martens.
She’s giving off seriousHocus Pocusvibes.
Not in a good way.
I realize then that she didn’t ask my name.
“Where is Andrej?”
“Working.” She doesn’t elaborate.
“Did he ask you to stay here with me?”
The coffee is so hot that it scalds my tongue and makes my eyes water, but I’m grateful for the distraction. I don’t know how I feel about Andrej having me guarded by this woman. It feels as if he trusts her more than he trusts me.
