Page 11 of Sinful Hearts

“Rude,” I mutter when he places the glass out of my reach.

The alcohol has given me a bravery I shouldn’t have.

Emilio sets a full glass of water where my wineglass was.

I harden my gaze on him in disapproval.

“Drink,” he demands. “Sloppy drunks are distasteful.”

I inhale the smell of his breath. It’s a sharp mix of mint and bourbon. I bite down the urge to sayrudeagain … or something worse.

Normally, I’m not much of a drinker.

A glass of wine here. A margarita on occasion.

But tonight? Bring me the entire bottle.

I cast a glance at Aleksy and my mother, sitting at their table, and struggle to resist the urge to pick up the water glass and hurl it at them. All night, they’ve laughed and toasted—and without even checking on me once.

Aleksy dropped another bomb on me during the ride here. After this, I’m leaving here and going straight to my new home with my new husband.

I don’t get to pack my own bags. They’ll be waiting for me when I get there.

I look away from them to Emilio. He raises a brow as I lift the water to my lips and take a drink. I hold it in my mouth for three seconds before spitting it back into the glass.

It’s so unladylike.

The look he gives me could freeze hell.

My lips twitch into a smile.

He leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle.

A puzzle he wants to rip apart.

Staring back, I fake a confidence I most definitely don’t have. I gulp, making the mistake of taking my husband in, remembering how gorgeous he is.

Before coming to the reception dinner, he ditched his tux jacket, now only wearing a black shirt with the top three buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Why can’t my monster husband have horns growing from his head like the devil he is?

They do say the devil is alluring.

It’s how he draws you in.

This dinner is a snoozefest and reminds me more of a funeral reception than one for a wedding. It’s nothing like the weddings I grew up attending.

There’s no dancing, karaoke, or speeches. We haven’t even had a first dance. However, I won’t complain about that one. I’d rather dig my own grave with a spork than dance with Emilio.

I’ve texted Dasha a few times with no reply.

All she did was leave a note that saidSorry, I won’t marry himin the bridal suite before hightailing it.

Aleksy tracked her phone. It’s at the bottom of the Hudson River, hanging out with the fish, litter, and bodies people have forgotten about.

I grab the glass, my eyes on him, and pour the water into my mouth, not swallowing it again.

“Swallow the fucking water, Liliya, or I’ll pour it down your throat and watch you choke on it,” Emilio warns.