Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (16 page)

"
N
o
, no, a thousand times no!"

Elle giggles and twirls to the dressing room, wearing what basically looks like a four-thousand-dollar princess-fairy costume.

The saleswoman is not amused, though I certainly am.

I'm also pretty sure I'm drunk. It's totally unlike me—but then again, so is being married to a Russian mobster.

"What?" says Elle. "I think I look gorgeous. Plus, I can fly!" She spreads her arms wide, her long blonde hair trailing down her back and the translucent purple gown trailing behind her as she runs from the back of the store towards the front.

She's definitely drunker than I am.

It's these upscale boutiques. They give you champagne when you walk in the door!

After a week, I was finally healed. Well, my face was healed from Markov's attack.

Gray and I had been having so much sex, I kind of felt like I needed an ice pack down there.

But what a delicious way to ache.

Elle and I had spent Saturday at the spa, compliments of my husband. We'd had our hair cut and our nails done, along with massages and facials.

The one thing we hadn't done enough of, I decided as I hiccupped, was eat.

"I'm so tipsy," I call out to Elle.

After our spa treatments, we'd gone uptown to the fancy shops along Fifth Avenue. We'd both stood out like sore, poor thumbs, and I think the only thing keeping us from getting the
Pretty Woman
treatment—as in, kicked out by snobby saleswomen—was the fact that we didn't actually look like prostitutes.

I mean, Elle was wearing her cat leggings again.

Okay, maybe we looked like prostitutes from a Japanese cat bar?

At any rate, none of the women or men who'd been working the stores seemed to like us.

Especially
Mandy
, the perfect size-zero who was helping us now, but who kept clutching her cell phone like she'd have to call 911 on us.

I stare at myself in the dressing-room mirror, ignoring Mandy who's peeking around a glitter-covered mannequin to stare at me.

"I could never wear this in public. Or, in private. Or, anywhere," I say.

Mandy had brought me a skin-tight, silver cocktail dress. Strapless, sleeveless…hell, there was barely any fabric covering my legs or butt. It was almost
assless
.

"You look gorgeous," Mandy raves. She ventures closer and pretends to tweak the fabric—like there was anything extra, once it was wrapped around my ample derriere.

"I look like a glittery, stuffed sausage," I say.

Elle floats back into view, trailing about three-thousand dollars worth of taffeta behind her.

"You look hot!" Elle says.

"How much is it?" I ask.

Mandy smiles, clearly uncomfortable with discussing prices. "Four," she says, as demurely as possible.

"Four…hundred?" I say.

"Four thousand."

"
Aaaaand,
that's a no." I begin stripping. Elle and I have had enough sleepovers over the years that she's seen me in various stages of undress. And I figure if Mandy has a problem with some cleavage, she should probably get a new line of work.

"Ew," Elle says, watching me. "Honey, I hate to say this, but you're a married woman now. And your husband is
fine
. And you should get some new panties."

I glance down at my underwear. "What?" I say. They're nice. Basic. Kind of new.

"Where did you
get
those?" Mandy whispers. She's given up being haughty; my ugly-ass underwear has shocked her manners away.

I sigh. "Walgreens."

Elle and Mandy burst into laughter.

"Oh my God, you're buying new underwear!" Elle shrieks.

"This place is too expensive," I mouth at her, as Mandy rushes off—I presume—to find me underwear that is not sold in a drugstore.

"Sweetie, Gray gave you a credit card and told you to use it. Speaking of the man, the myth, the legend: what time is it? Are we supposed to get you home at a decent hour?"

I check my phone. "Wow, it's almost ten. And that's weird."

"What?"

"I've got five missed calls."

"All from Gray?" Elle sits down on one of the velvet-covered poufs in the fancy dressing room.

"No," I mutter. "Three from Gray, two from an unknown number." Then I see three voicemails, all from Gray. Shit. I put the speaker on and listen to the first one.

"
Katya
, call me. As soon as you get this."

I frown, and Elle raises her eyebrows.

"He sounds pissed," she says.

"He always sounds like that," I say. "He's so bossy." Especially in bed. I blush, remembering what he had me do last night…

What I don't say is that his voice sounds strained. Bossy, arrogant, demanding—but off, somehow.

The second message is worse, with him sounding downright livid.

In the third message he actually says
where the fuck are you
.

I stop the playback feature and throw the phone back in my bag.

"Screw him," I say. "Can I spend the night at your place?"

Elle stands up, pulling up her cat stockings and adjusting her black bra, which clearly can be seen underneath the translucent purple material of the whimsical dress.

"Kat," Elle says gently. "Maybe you should at least call him back? I'm not saying you have to go back to his place, but, you know, at least talk to him? He sounds worried." She grins wickedly. "And kind of hot."

Mandy suddenly appears, carrying a rainbow assortment of lace and silk on a tray.

"Maybe you're right," I say. "Let me just pick out some underwear, and we'll call him on our way home."

Mandy grins and holds up a scrap of pink fabric.

"Is that a child's handkerchief?" I say.

"No, it's a bra!" Mandy chirps.

"Oh, hell no!" I say, at the exact same time as Elle screams, "Hell yes!"

W
here
.

The fuck.

Is she.

"I'm sorry, Gray. Your girl isn't here." Chase's voice is breathless, and I can tell he's jogging to his car. I'd sent him to my apartment, just in case she'd fallen asleep or something. "Want me to check anywhere else?"

"I'll get the address to you in five," I say, hanging up on Chase in mid-sentence. He doesn't deserve that, but he'll get over it.

I'm not sure I can get over what I'm feeling right now.

After seeing what Viktor's special "cargo" actually was, I was livid. I had to rendezvous at Café Russo with him and the crew. Viktor was ecstatic at how many women had been delivered; Markov had been given the task of setting them up in housing, where—apparently—they would be cleaned, looked over by doctors, and then trained for the whorehouses Viktor ran.

That, or sold.

I'd kept my mask on, but Markov could tell I wasn't pleased. And he loved it.

"How's your lovely bride treating you?" The bastard had grinned as he sidled over to me, sipping a victory vodka. "She's a sweet little
suka
."

He had watched my face as he called Kat a bitch, hoping for a reaction.

When I didn't give him one, he shrugged and kept running his mouth. "You know, Viktor wants me to apologize for kissing her."

I refused to speak with the shithead.

Markov had leaned closer, the idiot. "You know how it is, if a woman throws herself at you…" He trails off, watching my face, baiting me.

I was smart enough not to take his bait. I wouldn't beat him down for words.

At least, not in front of all of Viktor's men.

Markov had kept running his mouth. "You know, Viktor had promised he'd give her to me for training."

My hand had clenched and unclenched. I couldn't quite control it.

"I was really looking forward to seeing those big tits she hides behind her ugly T-shirts. But, you know what I'm talking about!" Markov had leaned close, pretending to whisper. "Let me know if you need any tips on how to train a woman. I would have kept her naked and on her knees for a few days. Make sure she knows how a good bitch treats a bone, you know?" He'd clapped me on the back. "But I'm sure you've done that already, eh, Petrokov? Yeah, I was upset, but now who the fuck cares? I've got eighty little bitches I can train now."

He'd glanced up at me, raised his glass, and downed it. "Bet you're wishing you hadn't taken the bar from me, now, eh, you fat fuck?"

I shouldn't have reacted. But in one second, I'd grabbed his shot glass with my left hand and his throat with my right hand. Then I'd slammed the thick glass onto the top of his fucking shaved head.

Then everyone had drawn guns. Of course, when I pointed out that the man had insulted my wife, everyone understood. I had reacted mildly—but I'd reacted as
if I actually cared for my wife
.

Viktor had made Markov apologize. But I'd seen both of them, their eyes calculating, measuring me.

I'd fucked up. They knew I care for her. They knew—or at least suspected—that I might do anything for her.

Fuck, Kat made me crazy.

Worrying about her made me crazy.

Now she wasn't answering her phone or my texts.

Had Markov fucking grabbed her? I wouldn't put it past him. He'd had it out for me ever since I outpaced him. I was a better shot, a better planner, smarter, faster, stronger…

The only thing he was better at than me was being a completely soulless fucking bastard.

I flip open my laptop and open up the tracking app I'd hidden on Kat's phone. Within seconds I have a map of her location; the blinking green circle shows me she's on the Upper East Side.
Thank Christ
. Markov didn't like Manhattan, and he sure as hell wasn't going above 14
^th
Street if he could help it.

But if she's safe, why isn't she returning my calls?

I call her one more time. The phone rings and rings, until voicemail picks up. She hasn't customized the message yet, so it's just a generic female robot voice. I hang up, enraged that I can't even hear her voice. I know I'm losing it over a girl—but all I care about right now is seeing her. Making sure she's safe.

Making sure she knows she's mine.

I click on the pulsing green circle, expecting the address to be a bar. I'd sent her and Elle to a spa all day. Maybe they went out for dinner and drinks afterward. Maybe it was loud, crowded, too chaotic for her to hear me.

Maybe she's ignoring me
.

Fuck.

But no, Kat's not at a bar. The map says she's at Giselle's Boutique. I look at the clock. It's fucking 10 p.m. Wouldn't a fancy-ass boutique be closed by now? I grab a black jacket and pull it on over my jeans and t-shirt. If she's at some upscale store—and ignoring me—she'd better be busy buying herself the wardrobe of a lifetime.

The image of my Kat in a dress that shows off all her considerable assets appears before me—as pissed and worried as I am, dammit, now I'm hard.

I stop and look in the mirror. Probably should've shaved, and I always look about three sizes too big to fit into any fancy New York place, but, fuck it. Hopefully Kat doesn't mind that I'm a big fucking guy.

I think of her, coming apart in my arms this morning. And the night before.

She didn't seem to have a problem with it.

Great, now my pants feel way too fucking tight.

I text Chase on the way to the underground parking garage, giving him the address and telling him I'm on my way.

You still want me to go there?,
he messages me.

Yes
, I reply.

It sounds crazy, but I have this fear she'll run from me—even though I'd been the one to run from her for seven long years. If Chase can get to the store first, great. He can keep on eye on my woman until I arrive.

Because now that Viktor and Markov had seen my true feelings, she isn't safe. Markov would slice my neck as soon as look at me. And Viktor knows I lied to him, saying I barely remembered the girl and just wanted the bar, and the money-laundering profits.

So why was I holding back?

I fucking want her. I didn't want her in my world, I didn't want to ruin her. But now she's here, and those other men will try to ruin her—and me. I can feel it, in my gut, like a sucker-punch.

Can they feel me? Do the animals inside them run in wild circles, because they sense I'm about to light their world on fire?

And does Kat sense me, coming to get her?

Because the animal in me is going to take her.

Tonight.

M
andy has opened
our third bottle of champagne—and she's chugging it directly from the cool, green glass.

"Go Mandy, go Mandy, go Mandy!" Elle and I shout.

The store is technically closed, but Elle basically shoved Gray's credit card into Mandy's bra and told her to keep the clothing—and the booze—flowing.

Mandy started drinking maybe an hour ago?

And I must be drunk because they got me in the tiny pink handkerchiefs—okay, the gorgeous, delicate bra and matching panties. They're softer than soft, and I fear they might melt if somebody breathed on them.

"It's gorgeous," I'd said. "But this bra is like the opposite of supportive."

"Honey, it's not made to support
you
," Mandy had giggled, tightening the delicate strap that was no wider than a strand of spaghetti. "It's made to be ripped off by your
lover
."

I'm sure I'd blushed a fiery red, but the other girls had been too drunk and happy to pay much attention. Now I'm wearing a sleek, fitted black cocktail dress. It's off-the-shoulder (though I have a wickedly sexy and entirely unpractical strapless bra on underneath), features a plunging neckline which honestly makes my cleavage look better than I've ever thought possible, and it hugs all my other curves. Like, every single one.

"It's gorgeous, Mandy," I say. "But I could never wear this in public! It's so tight. And clingy."

"And
hottth
," Mandy slurs.

Elle rolls her eyes. She's still got her kitten tights on, though now she's wearing a studded bustier that Madonna circa 1985 would envy. Her long, blonde hair is wild, and she's somehow come into possession of a princess crown that I'm pretty sure has real diamonds in it.

"Girl, own your curves." Elle stands behind me, her hands on my hips, and turns me this way and that in the mirror. "They're gorgeous. You're gorgeous. But you're right. You never
will
wear this in public, because as soon as Gray sees you in it, he's going to throw you down on the nearest surface and screw your brains out. How is he in bed, anyway?"

I fidget with the garter belt and silken garters Mandy made me buy. They feel like a ghostly caress all over my legs, and it—everything—makes me think of Gray.

Maybe I should have answered my phone.

"I don't know if I should kiss and tell," I say.

"Lame!" Mandy shouts.

"What!" Elle chimes in. "You married a giant Russian sex monster!
We want details
!"

I laugh. "Okay, well, you said it: I married a giant Russian sex monster!"

I throw a pile of lace panties at the girls' heads; they're sitting on the velvet poufs in the luxurious, circular dressing room. There are mirrors on all sides of the place, and tufted, golden couches that look like they came straight from a Russian czar's palace.

"I forgot to text him back. He might be worried—"

I'm interrupted by the violent shaking of the front doors.

"Um, I'll be right back," Mandy says, struggling to stand up quickly.

"We'll go with you!" I say. Whoever's outside sounds like they want in, and they'll tear the place to the ground to get in.

We run to the front of the store. A tall, dark-haired man is banging on the glass and trying to basically pull the door off the hinges. It hits me that he may actually just be trying to open the door, but he's so big that even his smallest movements make it look like the Incredible Hulk is trying to get inside.

"Is that him? Your husband?" Mandy gasps.

"No," I say in wonder.

"Let him in," Elle says appreciatively.

"What if he's a robber?" Mandy asks.

At that point, the tall, dark-haired man looks up and sees up. He points directly at me and says, "Kat, open the door."

Then he glances at Elle and his gaze stays there.

Elle's breathing is fast; I can tell since she's wearing a frickin' bustier. "Do you know him, Kat?"

"No," I say.

And then I see a real storm approaching. From behind the tall, dark and handsome man at the door comes Gray—taller, badder, and pissed-the-hell-off.

"Oh God," I say. Mandy clutches my arm, and I realize she looks truly frightened.

"Don’t worry." Elle lays a comforting hand on Mandy's arm. "He's not a homicidal maniac, he just looks like it."

I gulp. "Yeah, he's not a maniac. He's my husband."

* * *

M
andy opens
the front doors with shaking hands, and I admit, even I'm becoming a little bit frightened of Gray.

He's immense. It's like, I leave him for a few hours and I forget how truly enormous he is, from his thighs that are basically tree trunks, to his massive arms, to—
don't look at his pants, even though you're thinking it, don't look at the bulge between his legs
.

I peek anyway, then glance up to see his slate eyes on me, his jaw locked, his chest heaving. Holy shit, he looks big, bad and…really, really good. His hair is slicked back, a dark gold. He's wearing all black, and he looks like a sharply dressed avenging angel.

He takes a deep breath, holding my gaze the entire time. I feel like a deer caught in headlights, but there's no part of me that wants to run away. Not at this moment.

Am I happy to see him
?

Then he's on me.

"Why the fuck haven't you answered my calls?" But instead of throttling me—which is seriously what he looks like he wants to do—he touches me.

He can't stop touching me.

He grabs my shoulders, my arms, my hands. He takes me face between his palms and just stares at me, and I see the worry, the stress.

"Answer me, Katya." There's that trace of an accent, one of the only things he inherited from his father. And then his eyes travel downwards, and I see
him
see what I'm wearing.

"Holy fucking shit." He exhales, slowly releasing me.

"I've been shopping," I say. Then I hiccup. "And drinking."

I bite my lip to stop from grinning. Gray can't tear his eyes off my cleavage, then my waist, then my ass, then my feet—really, my bare feet?—then back up again.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you," I say, surprised that I mean it. "I wasn't checking my phone, and then I…got distracted." He looks up at me, and for a split-second I see pure anguish in his eyes, before he masks himself.

Gray leans in, kisses me cheek, then whispers in my ear, "I was worried out of my mind. But now I'm distracted, too."

He trails a hand over the smooth fabric of the dress, before resting it on my ass. He holds me there, then turns toward the man he arrived with.

The man who's staring hungrily at my best friend.

What in the what?!

"Chase, we're good here," Gray says, gripping me even tighter.

"Chase" is, um, about the most gorgeous man I've ever seen, second only to Gray. Chase is just an inch or two shy of Gray's massive height, and I can tell this man is strong, probably deadly. He's wearing all black: black jeans, black boots, a black t-shirt. His hair is a dark chestnut, and his eyes are bright blue.

And aimed right at my best friend.

"What about her?" Chase says, never taking his eyes off Elle.

Mandy's standing between all of us, looking giddily from Chase and Elle to Gray and me. She catches my eye and asks, "Is there another guy coming in? Because
hot damn
."

A nervous laugh escapes me, but I'm quickly sobering up.

"Gray, Chase—this is Elle. My oldest friend." Gray looks reflexively at me, and I know he's thinking:
except me
. Because I'm thinking that, too. The only person who's been in my life longer than Elle is Gray.

But he left, I remind myself.

But he's back
.

"Pleased to meet you." Chase extends his hand and takes Elle's small hand in his. Elle blushes like wildfire, and makes a move to cover up her chest. Chase doesn't seem to mind the bustier or the kitten leggings. He reaches out one long arm and gently rights Elle's tiara, which had fallen to the side.

"Elle," my best friend whispers. She looks like she's been hit by a truck. A big, bad, crystal blue-eyed, Chase-shaped truck.

"Elle and Mandy and I were just finishing up," I say.

"You're finished
now
," Gray says. "How much do I owe you?" He hands Mandy what looks like a business card. "Pack it all up and ship it to this address."

"But Gray, I haven't actually finished picking a few things out." I move toward the dressing rooms. "Let me just make my final choices, and I'll get dressed and we can go."

Gray grabs my hand, stopping me in my tracks. He gives Mandy a look that has her shivering in her shoes, though I'm not sure it's entirely unpleasant shivers.

"We'll take it all. Anything she tried on." Gray turns toward Chase and Elle. "You got her?"

"I've got her," Chase says. He still hasn't stopped staring at my girl, which makes me nervous. Then again, Elle can't seem to stop looking at him.

"Actually," I say. "Elle and I were going to go get dinner." For some reason, leaving Elle alone with Chase feels like leaving Little Red Riding Hood alone with the Big Bad Wolf. I raise my eyebrows and give Elle a look:
Are you okay?

She grins and gives me an
it's-okay
shake of the head, a slight blush train her cheeks a lovely shade of rose.

"I think I'll just go home and get dinner, Kat." Elle takes off the tiara and turns to Mandy. "It was so nice meeting you. Let me just get changed—"

Chase gently takes the tiara from her hand, turns to Mandy, and says, "Anything she tried on, bill to me. Chase Masters." He nods his head toward Gray. "You can send the invoice to his place, but put my name on it."

He delicately places the tiara back on Elle's head. "Keep it on. It goes with the kitten tights."

I've never seen my best friend speechless before, but she just gapes at him, her hand trailing up to the crown on her head.

"C'mon," Chase says, grabbing her hand. "I'll get her home safe, Kat."

And with that, they're out the door!

"Elle!" I cry. "Wait, are you sure about this—"

"He's got her," Gray growls.

"That's what I'm afraid of!"

Gray gives me a wolfish grin. "Chase is one of only three people I trust in the world. Your friend will be all right."

I'm scared to ask who the third person is. It can't be me, can it? He's giving me a meaningful look, like I should know what he's talking about.
Ask him
, some part of me says. But then Gray leans down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder, Tarzan-style. My dress is so tight and slick I almost slide right off, but his large hands hold me tight.

"I've got
you
," Grays says. I can feel his large hand caressing my ass through the skintight fabric, and I'm embarrassed that it goes straight to my core, molten heat flooding my mind and heart and center.

I feel more than see Gray turn to Mandy. "Take a break," he orders. "A long one. Lock the front doors."

I hear a breathless "yes, Sir!" and then the front door opens and shuts. All I can see is Gray's ass—and what a nice fucking specimen it is—even hanging upside down.

"Put me down." I try to make my voice as controlled and angry as I can. I
will not
squirm with excitement.
I will not
!

Gray carries me to the back of the store. "Gladly. But I want to see what you've been spending all my hard-earned money on, first."

I shriek and start banging on his ass. Dammit, why does it have to be hard as a rock and so perfect?

"Babes, you can cut the foreplay. I'm a sure thing."

Suddenly I'm back on my feet, his hands steadying me at my waist, and then he's kissing me senseless.

"Gray—" I say, pulling back to take a breath. He kisses me again, taking control. He's so big and tall and overwhelming in every way. Gray's tongue slips inside my mouth, wars with me, makes peace with me, then takes over. He makes me feel giddier and higher than champagne bubbles.

He sits back on one of the golden couches, looking like a king on his throne, and I stand between his legs. He leans forward and kisses me one more time, hot and wet and insistent.

"You look gorgeous," he whispers into my mouth. I can feel the heat from his exhalations, and it's driving me mad. I move to step closer, between his spread legs, but he stops me, his hands on my hips. "This dress is amazing.
You're
amazing."

I don't know how to handle his compliments. No one's really ever told me I'm beautiful, besides Elle. But she's my best friend, so she has to say stuff like that.

But…Gray can't keep his hands off me.

He keeps kissing the edge of my lips, his hands moving restlessly over and over the fabric clinging to my hips.

"How much did this dress cost?" Gray continues, his smooth, dark voice whispering in my ear. I realize he's slowly pulling up the skintight dress. He pauses and whistles when he sees the garter and stockings.

"Fuck, that's distracting," he says. He pulls back and looks me in the eye, letting my dress fall.

"Um, I'm not sure." I know I'm blushing. "I didn't
buy
it yet. I won't buy it. It's ridiculously expensive."