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CHAPTER NINE

Revna

I stumble out of bed, wrapping myself in a robe, ready to murder whoever thinks this is acceptable.

"Open up, bride-to-be!" Rhiannon's voice carries through the door. "We've got places to go!"

I yank open the door to find my future sister-in-law grinning like a maniac, Dalla hovering behind her looking guilty.

"What the hell?—"

"Surprise!" Rhiannon pushes past me into the apartment. "Pack a bag. We're going to Vegas, like right the fuck now!"

"I'm sorry," Dalla says, following her in. "She threatened to break down the door if I didn't give her my key."

"Vegas?" I'm still processing. "Rhiannon, I have studying?—"

"Fuck studying." Her Irish accent makes the curse sound almost musical. "You're getting married in a week. We're having a proper hen party."

"It's called a bachelorette party here," I correct automatically.

"Whatever you want to call it, we're doing it." She heads for my bedroom. "Come on, I'll help you pack. Need something slutty for the clubs."

"I'm not going to Vegas."

"Oh yes you are." Greer appears in my doorway, looking far too put-together for this early. "The jet's waiting."

"Jet?"

"Did you think we were flying commercial?" She says it like the idea is absurd. "Everly's already at the airport with Elfe. Your mother and Charm are meeting us there."

"My mom's coming?" This keeps getting more surreal.

"'Course she is," Rhiannon calls from my closet. "Can't have a hen party without your mum."

I look at Dalla desperately. "You knew about this?"

"Since yesterday. They swore me to secrecy." She holds up a bag. "I already packed for both of us."

An hour later, I'm on a private jet sipping champagne at eight in the morning, surrounded by the women in my life.

"I can't believe this is happening," my mom says, looking around the luxury cabin with wide eyes. "A private jet to Vegas."

"Believe it, love." Charm pats her hand. "Our little Revna's marrying up."

" Way up," Elfe adds, already on her second mimosa. "Like, stratosphere up."

"Right then." Rhiannon stands, champagne flute in hand. "A toast! To Revna, who's about to become my sister and make my brother slightly less unbearable!"

"To Revna!" They all say together.

"I hate all of you," I mutter, but I'm smiling.

"No you don't," Everly says knowingly. "You love that we're doing this for you."

She's right, damn her.

The flight passes in a blur of champagne, embarrassing stories, and Rhiannon forcing me to open increasingly inappropriate gifts.

Penis straws, a sash that says "Future Mrs. Volkolv" in glitter, and something from Charm that makes my mother blush scarlet.

"That's for your wedding night." Charm winks. "Trust me, Doran will appreciate it."

"Can we not talk about what Doran will appreciate?" I beg.

"But that's the whole point!" Rhiannon protests. "We need to make sure you're properly prepared for married life."

"She's already sleeping with him," Dalla offers helpfully.

"Dalla!"

"What? It's true."

"Ooh, details!" Elfe leans forward. "Is he as intense in bed as he is in real life?"

"I'm not discussing?—"

"That's a yes," Greer observes, sipping her champagne elegantly. "My son doesn't do anything halfway."

"Can we please talk about literally anything else?"

"No," they say in unison.

"Come on," Charm presses. "Give us something. Is he generous? Selfish? Kinky?"

"All of the above," I mutter into my champagne, making them squeal.

"I knew it!" Rhiannon crows. "He's got that whole controlled exterior thing, but I bet he's filthy in bed."

"Your brother," I remind her weakly.

"So? Doesn't mean I can't appreciate that you're getting good sex." She refills my glass. "Trust me, in this family, good sex is important. Keeps everyone from killing each other."

By the time we land in Vegas, I'm tipsy and laughing at everything.

The limo ride to the hotel is more of the same—Rhiannon pointing out strip clubs we should visit, my mother looking mortified, Charm encouraging every bad idea.

The suite at the Aria is ridiculous.

It's bigger than my entire apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip.

"Holy shit," Elfe breathes.

"Holy shit indeed." Rhiannon grins. "Wait till you see what I've done with the place."

What she's done is turn it into a bachelorette party explosion.

Penis decorations everywhere—balloons, confetti, even the ice bucket is shaped like... yeah.

"Rhiannon," Greer sighs. "I said tasteful."

"This is tasteful! For Vegas!" She hands me a sash and tiara. "Put these on. You're the bride, you have to look the part."

"I'm not wearing?—"

"Yes you are," my mother says firmly. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Coming from the woman who just spent ten minutes blushing at penis straws, this is unexpected.

But I put on the sash and tiara, feeling ridiculous and loved.

"Right!" Rhiannon claps her hands. "Everybody get settled. The entertainment arrives at nine."

"Entertainment?" I ask suspiciously.

"Dancers," she says innocently. "Very talented dancers."

"Strippers," Dalla translates. "She hired strippers."

"The best in Vegas!" Rhiannon confirms. "You can't have a hen party without strippers. It's the law."

"I don't think that's?—"

"Shh." She shoves another drink in my hand. "Less thinking, more drinking."

The afternoon becomes a blur of spa treatments, poolside drinks, and increasingly ridiculous conversations.

Greer tells us about her own bachelorette party, Everly shares marriage advice "Sometimes you have to let them think they're in charge", and my mother gets progressively tipsier and more honest.

"I was so scared when your father told me about the arrangement," she admits, mascara slightly smudged. "But seeing you with Doran... there's something there, baby. Something real."

"Mom—"

"No, let me say this." She grips my hand. "I see how he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. That boy's been waiting for you."

"Man," Charm corrects. "That's not a boy, that's a full-grown, dangerous man. And he's completely obsessed with our Revna."

"Is that a good thing?" Elfe asks.

"In their world?" Everly nods. "It's the best thing. A man like that will burn down cities for you."

"He said something like that," I admit quietly. "That he'd burn the world if something happened to me."

"See?" Charm points her drink at me. "That's the kind of devotion you want in this life. None of that wishy-washy bullshit."

By nine o'clock, we're all back in the suite, dressed up and several drinks in.

Rhiannon's corralled us into the living room, chairs arranged in a semicircle.

She's even dimmed the lights and set up colored spotlights she got from Gods know where.

"Ladies!" she announces, wearing a "Dishonorable Bridesmaid" sash she made for herself. "Prepare yourselves for some premium entertainment!"

The door opens and six men walk in.

Not just any men—these are Greek god level specimens, all muscle and smoldering looks.

They're dressed as various professions—cop, fireman, businessman, construction worker.

It's cheesy and perfect.

One catches my eye immediately.

Tall, dark hair, green eyes that remind me of?—

"Fuck me, that one looks like Doran," Dalla whispers.

She's right. It's uncanny.

Same build, same coloring, same dangerous energy.

"Did you do that on purpose?" I hiss at Rhiannon.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says innocently, but her grin says otherwise.

The music starts—something with a heavy bass that vibrates through my chest.

The dancers move in perfect choreography and I'm impressed.

These aren't just strippers, they're performers.

"Get it, Fern!" Charm cheers as one dancer focuses on my mother, who's covering her face but peeking through her fingers.

"I can't!" Mom protests, but she's laughing harder than I've seen in years.

"Yes, you can!" Charm shoves bills in the dancer's waistband. "Show your daughter how it's done!"

The Doran lookalike zeroes in on me, probably recognizing the bride sash.

He holds out his hand, eyebrow raised in question.

"Go on!" Rhiannon pushes me forward. "It's tradition!"

I let him pull me into the center of our makeshift stage area.

Someone—probably Rhiannon—has placed a chair there.

He guides me to sit, then starts moving.

I have to admit, he's good. Really good.

His hips roll in ways that should be illegal, muscles rippling under stage lights.

But as he strips off his shirt, revealing abs you could wash clothes on, all I can think is that Doran does this better.

When the real Doran touches me, I combust.

This is just... athletic.

My phone buzzes.

I pull it out while the dancer's doing something complicated with his abs.

Doran:

Enjoying your party, little wolf?

Me:

This stripper wishes he was you.

Doran:

Stripper?

Me:

Rhiannon hired a whole troupe. One looks like you.

Doran:

Is he still breathing?

Me:

Possessive bastard.

Doran:

Your possessive bastard. Have fun, but remember who you belong to.

"Are you seriously texting during your lap dance?" Elfe shouts over the music.

I put my phone away, trying to focus on the performance.

The dancer's shirt is gone now, and my friends are losing their minds.

Charm and my mother are doing shots, Greer's recording everything on her phone, and Rhiannon's stuffing bills in various g-strings with wild abandon.

"Your turn!" She shoves a very pregnant Everly toward another dancer. "Married ladies need love too!"

The party continues, getting progressively wilder.

At some point, someone orders room service—champagne and an obscene amount of food.

The dancers eventually leave with very generous tips, and we collapse around the suite, laughing and exhausted.

"That was..." my mom starts, then hiccups. "That was amazing."

"See?" Rhiannon grins. "I told you hen parties were important."

"Bachelorette," I correct weakly.

"Whatever." She waves her hand. "Point is, you're properly celebrated now."

"I need air," I announce, standing on slightly unsteady legs.

"Lightweight," Dalla teases.