Page 92 of I'm sorry, Princess
"Fuck no," I scoff, shaking my head. "Go fuck Andres’ date."
Andres glares at me.
"Thanks, but no," he says, bored.
Lev just grins, leaning back in his chair like he’s debating his next move.
Kirill watches us, amusement flickering in his eyes. He never talks about women, not with us, not with anyone. That man would rather rip someone’s throat out thandisrespect his wife. If he even thinks about another woman, no one fucking knows.
We shift the conversation to business, to actual things that matter. Kirill updates us on those pricks who tried to attack his younger daughter, everything is already being handled, of course. The two fuckers who made the mistake of breathing in her direction will soon find themselves locked in Lev’s basement, wishing they’d never been born.
I nod. Good.
We move on to discussing the next shipment. Bratva needs more guns every month, and we’re the only ones who can supply what they need. More shipments, more money, more leverage.
And yet, through all this, through talks of business and bloodshed, my mind drifts.
I don’t need to look to know where she is. I feel her. I always fucking do.
And I hate it.
The night drags on, a slow, agonizing torture filled with fake smiles, meaningless small talk, and Ashley trailing after me like a fucking lost puppy. Every time I stop to greet someone, she’s right there, reaching for my hand like we’re some sickeningly in-love couple, playing a role in a show I didn’t fucking sign up for.
I don’t stop her.
Not because I want her. Because I know she’s watching.
And fuck, does it amuse me when I catch my little angel glaring at me from across the room, her brown eyes burning holes into my skin, her expression teetering between fury and something she doesn’t even want to admit to herself, jealousy.
Yeah, watch me, baby. Watch me let another woman hang off my arm while you fume.
But what doesn’t amuse me?
Ian.
That motherfucker is glued to her side like she’s his to protect, his to fucking touch. Every time I see his hand resting on her lower back, every time he leans in like he’s whispering sweet nothings in her ear, my fingers twitch with the urge to grab him by the throat and smash his fucking face against the marble floors of this overpriced hotel.
Then, the music shifts, low, slow, intimate.
I see it before it happens. Ian turns to her, determination in his stance, moving toward her with that fucking look on his face like he’s about to claim her for a dance.
Not on my fucking watch, Archibald.
I move before my mind even registers it, weaving through the crowd with ease. My focus is on her, on the golden-haired angel standing by the bar, her body swaying ever so slightly, lips parted, eyes hazy from too many drinks. She’s talking with Sienna and some other woman I don’t fucking care about, her voice light, her laugh soft.
And then she feels me.
Her body stiffens before my hands are even on her.
I grab her by the waist, pulling her flush against me, her body molding to mine like she belongs there. Like I own her. Her breath hitches, her back arching slightly at the contact, and when she turns those big, brown eyes up at me, the flash of shock mixed with something else, something she’s too stubborn to admit, almost makes me groan.
Sienna, of course, is already smirking, like she expected this to happen. Like she fucking knew I wouldn’t let her little friend dance with someone else.
"Dance with me," I demand, my voice low, rough.
Her brows furrow, her lips part as if she’s about to tell me to fuck off, but she hesitates.
"No," she finally says, attempting to push away, her palms pressing against my chest.
