Page 42 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

The ocean.

I start walking a little faster. The guard remains behind me at the first set of doors. I leave him there as I step out from underneath the ceiling into the arms of the sea breeze.

It’s more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. An infinite field of roiling, white-capped waves. The sound kisses my ears. The salt air licks my face. Every breath feels like the first one I’ve ever taken.

Then the doors click behind me.

I turn and see Phoenix standing there. It’s just him and me out here. No guards.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmurs.

My skin prickles immediately from head to toe.Pathetic, I think. One little compliment and I’m putty already? No, I refuse to be that easy.Breathe. Focus.

Phoenix is pretty exquisite himself. Dark suit pants beneath a pure white shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, tattooed forearms ripping with veins. The sea breeze stirs his hair. His eyes glisten, never once wavering from mine.

He gives me a smile—dazzling, every bit as white as his shirt—and suddenly, I’m forgetting everything I told myself on the way here.

“Take a seat.”

It’s a bad idea to start the evening off taking orders without question. But between the dress I’m wearing, Phoenix’s intoxicating smirk, Charity’s voice in my head, the whiplash transitions from a wedding to a stabbing to whatever this is, and above all, my clawing desire to hold my son in my arms again, I have a feeling that I need to sit down immediately or else I’m going to promptly collapse.

So when Phoenix draws a seat out from beneath a table covered in flawless white cloth, I sink into it and don’t argue.

“I’ve never seen the sea before,” I admit—more to myself than to him.

“Never?”

I turn to him as he takes his seat opposite me. “I lived in an enclosed commune in the desert my entire life,” I remind him.

“Well, it suits you.”

“What does?”

“The ocean,” he explains. “The wind in your hair. The moon in your eyes. Most of all, that dress. It suits you like you were born for it.”

I blush and look down at my hands in my lap.

He’s polite. Charming, even. But there’s something about his manner that makes me wary. He’s studying me. Hunting for flaws, vulnerabilities. He said he’d do whatever it takes to find out what’s trapped in my head.

Just how far is he willing to go?

“What is the point of all this?” I ask, gesturing at the finery that surrounds us, my expensive dress, the silver cloches waiting on the table between us.

“The point?” he asks innocently. “We just got married. A honeymoon is in order, don’t you think?”

I can’t quite understand the bitterness in his voice. The barely concealed animosity that he slips between each word, bearing it like knife.

Why does it sound like he’s angry at me?

“So,” he starts, “what was life like growing up in the cult?”

I flinch at his hard tone, at the barely concealed accusation he’s lobbing at me. “Subtle.”

“I never claimed to be.”

“Is this is your way of coaxing memories out of me?”

“I’m starting off nice. Just remember that.”

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