Page 10

The air buzzed with the familiar energy of drunkenness, wasted lives, and ecstasy.

The club lights pulsed low, a hum settling over the crowd as we made our way through the reserved spot with “VIPs ONLY” dangling beside the plush red ropes. The place was high-end and sleek in design, with black marble, plush leather seats, and a bar that stretched half the length of the room. Neon blue lights traced along the walls, flashing a glow that glinted off the glassware and tinted everything a cool, metallic hue.

One of Rafayel’s contacts owned the club.

I nodded, assessing the bubbling life. Not bad.

My brother’s laugh cut through the bass-heavy music, and I turned in time to see him share a handshake with Arlo, both of them already in high spirits. I didn’t need either of them to tell me; they’d probably made some stupid bet on something I wasn’t going to bother myself about.

Nikolai followed close, his gaze scanning the room—a man with more restraint these days, but still, he’d undoubtedly proven himself to be the most intense of us all. Well, sometimes. I did beat his ass in chess once in a while, on some good days.

We settled into a corner booth, a bottle already waiting, courtesy of Rafayel. He poured generous drinks. Nikolai sat beside me, absentmindedly fiddling with his wedding ring. The silver glinted under the low lights, a reminder that he, too, had crossed this threshold. He looked up, meeting my gaze, a half-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. I returned it with a nod; there were no words needed, just the quiet understanding of cousins who’d known each other too long to need them.

When our glasses touched the table, a few women from across the room noticed—strippers roped in the tiniest pieces of fabric, with almost nothing left to the imagination.

They drifted over, their neon wears catching the ambient lights, heels clicking on the floor as they closed the gap between us.

Rafayel leaned back, his usual smirk settling in place as they hovered around him. Growing up, he’d fanned his ego into believing he was the ladies’ man between us. I guessed it was because his charm worked almost every time. Even now.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, they danced around him, moved lips to his ears, dropping to whispers and laughter that suggested they knew exactly who they were dealing with. One of them placed a hand on Arlo’s shoulder, and he flashed that effortless grin of his, engaging without reservation. Their charm was infectious; it always had been.

“Hi, Sugar.”

When they turned to me, their eyes full of expectation, I gave a quick shake of my head, just enough to show I wasn’t interested.

Because I wasn’t.

It had nothing to do with the image of teary blue eyes and bloodied blonde hair taunting my memory.

The women caught the hint, retreating to where they were more welcome, and I could feel Nikolai’s quiet laugh beside me. They didn’t even bother with him. One look at the silver band on his finger and a warning glare from him scared them off.

Since Rosalyn came into the picture, he’d been smitten before he even realized it, officially whipped. And he didn’t seem to care that she had him wrapped around her little finger. Married life had softened him some, but deep down, I knew he still found amusement in watching the rest of us navigate these scenes. He was Niko, after all. The fun never really died with him.

Across the table, Arlo leaned back, whiskey swirling in his glass, giving one of his slow, arrogant grins that usually meant trouble wasn’t far off. But tonight, even he kept things respectful.

After all, it wasn’t every day that I, of all people, would walk the aisle.

Precisely tomorrow.

I’d be dressed in a fucking tux, expected to be patient while waiting for my bride to walk down that aisle. My bride.

I shook my head at the thought.

Marriage .

Even the word seemed foreign, an invitation to something both intimate and uncharted.

The night wore on with the easy rhythm of old, drinks flowing as we fell into conversation that dipped between business and memory. Rafayel’s laughter, Nikolai’s steady calm, Arlo’s banter—it was all exactly as I enjoyed, even if my world was about to experience a slight shift in less than twenty-four hours.

Then, in the midst of it, Niko asked why I chose to marry Serena.

“It would’ve been simpler, I suppose, to sell her off, send her away like some business deal, wipe your hands off the whole situation. That’s what anyone would expect from you—the grumpy businessman with no room for sentiment.” He smiled, raising his glass, before taking a sip.

Niko knew me almost as well as Rafayel did. And he was right. I could’ve thrown her into the sea and allowed the sharks to devour her while I counted the cash she’d reel in.

End of story.

But….

I was a man of values, despite what anyone thought. And despite the tempting thoughts to get rid of her, once and for all, I recognized quality when I saw it in everything, down to how crystal clear our drinking tumblers were. And Serena—she was one of the rare few who had that innocence, the kind we didn’t find anymore. Her eyes, clear and unguarded, unsettled something in me I didn’t know was there, something that wouldn’t let me throw her to the wolves.

And damn it, I refused to accept that I was getting soft. I just asked myself if she was worth the risk of turning my world upside down. And yet, deep down, I already knew the answer.

“She’s one of the good ones,” I replied to Niko without looking at him. That was all I thought they needed to know. They included Rafayel and Arlo, who were eagerly eavesdropping on the conversation, despite pretending to be occupied with the whores on their laps.

Niko had been waiting expectantly for an answer, and now that he’d gotten it, he wasn’t satisfied.

“Didn’t know you liked the good ones.”

“I don’t.”

“Then?”

Then, why are you keeping her if you claim you don’t want her?

I lifted a glass to my lips.

And when it didn’t burn hot enough, I swallowed another.

It worsened it. She enveloped my senses, seeping into everything she could. Blue eyes, blonde hair, and vanilla. A willing sacrifice, a substitute for the one that should have died. A fucking saint, my bride-to-be.

Secondly, she had a nurturing and kind nature. I saw it in the way she took good care of her brother and protected him as if he were her life. If there was ever such a thing, she would have been the best example of the perfect wife. Perfect mother for my future kids. When I thought about having her to myself and taking her on our wedding night, excitement rushed below my belt, and I glared at the tumbler in my hand to distract myself.

What use was there in denying that she was, indeed, very attractive and beautiful?

A bloody waste of time when it was too obvious.

“Who doesn’t want good gifts?” I faced Niko. “Just because I’m not interested in her doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate when good things are handed to me on a silver platter. Like you, with Rosa. Look at you now. Who’d have ever thought Nikolai Yezhov would be devoted to a life of one pussy?”

His brows dipped in a frown, and I smiled. Where Rosalyn was concerned, Niko was hypersensitive. He would punch teeth out if it kept her name out of my mouth for good.

Rafayel and Arlo tried to suppress snickers, but we heard them.

Rafayel gestured with a thumb. “Looking for trouble, brother?”

I chuckled. “I am trouble.”

“Not if I beat the shit out of you, you’re not,” Niko mumbled in Russian, and Arlo bent his face between his thighs, hiding a laugh.

I opted to flash what should have looked like a peaceful grin but turned out to be a grimace. “I’d love to see you try.”

On some good days, he threw solid punches. On other days, I could have him pinned down to the ground. Secretly, I hated that there were more good days than other days in our battle records.

Good thing Niko wasn’t in the mood to test which day it was either. Patting my back, he raised his glass for a toast.

“Enough sober talk. You’re getting married tomorrow! It’s time to drink some shit and enjoy the night.”

We refilled our glasses and raised them in the air.

Tonight, I’d drink my concerns and problematic thoughts away.

Tomorrow, I’d wear a fucking bow tie.