Page 32 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Maeve hadn’t realized how much she truly hated The Grotto until she was sitting inside it again.

She hated the nauseating smell of it, the thick tobacco smoke, sweat and sex, and more sweat.

She hated the disturbing smell of the leather booths, old whiskey, and even more fucking cigar.

It made her stomach twist and turn, flip over and back, to the extent where she had to swallow down the bitter taste of bile that surfaced at the back of her throat.

Her father had organized a meeting with Fedya—Jonathan Riley—despite knowing exactly who Fedya was, and her. Why? She didn’t know, but it left a sick feeling in her gut, especially since Fedya wasn’t aware that his identity wasn’t a secret to her father.

Fedya had received the call from Cormac on his burner phone two days ago. She had been sitting right next to him when he received the call from her father, who sounded a bit too eager to see his son-in-law and daughter after a month of joining them together.

Refusing the invitation was out of the question, so here they were, sitting side by side on a small couch in a secluded booth in the bar.

Her father could easily arrange this meeting in one of the rooms in The Grotto, but he constantly lived for an audience, which is why they were seated in front of three men she never thought she’d see again—Liam, Donnacha, and Cillian, her father’s right-hand men—while waiting for her father to show up.

Beside her, Fedya was the picture-perfect image of calm.

His face—now disguised as Jonathan Riley—reminded her of the first night she saw him from where she was standing with Margot.

She remembered the stone-cold gaze he had that reminded her of her father.

After Fedya had received that call from Cormac two days ago, she had remembered the man he killed to win her father’s favor and asked him about it.

Luca—as Fedya said his name was—turned out to be one of his men that he’d sent to put a close eye on her father’s movements.

Fedya had said the night Luca had survived was the night he began believing that luck truly did exist.

Maeve glanced at Fedya briefly, taking in the bald man she swore to hate on the first day.

She hated how easily he disappeared behind his perfect disguise.

She hated that the three men watching them right now and possibly everyone else in this stupid bar knew exactly who he was.

She hated that he was unaware that he was only fooling himself, but worst of all, she hated that she hadn’t told him anything yet.

“It’s never not a pleasure to see you, little Maeve,” Liam, her father’s second-in-command, said, smiling with teeth as he always did.

He twirled a glass of rum in his hands, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass walls.

She never understood why, but of all her father’s followers, she hated him the most. Maybe it was because of the way he started looking at her for too long right after she turned eighteen, or the way he had tried to corner her once when she snuck into The Grotto to see Margot. She hated him so much.

“I must say, marriage looks delicious on you,” he added, dragging his tongue over his teeth. His eyes latched onto her breasts, and Maeve wanted to sink her nails into his face and rip the smile off his mouth.

“Thank you, Liam,” she returned his smile, feeling Fedya’s hand on her thigh. “I can’t say I’ve missed you.”

The sound of his boisterous laughter bounced off the walls of the club, and for the nth time since they’d walked in, Maeve’s eyes darted upward, searching for any sign of Margot.

She was sure her father would have kept his promise to keep Margot alive, but with every uncertain second that ticked away without seeing her, her stomach twisted even further.

Liam winked at her. “Could never forget about that pretty mouth.”

Fedya’s smile was a contrast to the way his muscles had turned to stone. “We’re family now, Liam,” he said in a natural American accent, his grin widening. “I suppose pulling out a gun on you in front of everyone wouldn’t be such a threat.”

Liam cocked a brow, relaxing in his seat. “Oh—”

“I’d watch the manner with which you speak to a married woman if I were you,” Fedya added. Maeve’s fingers slid over his on her thigh unconsciously. “I’m not afraid to blow your brains out for speaking to or looking at my wife like that.”

Donnacha and Cillian exchanged a look. Liam had the decency to contain his smile, though Maeve caught the subtle stiffening of his shoulders.

“You’ll have to bear with him, Mr. Riley,” Cillian said. Out of the three men, he was the one who spoke less. “Liam has no business with your wife in that manner. It’s just the way he shows his excitement.”

“And he seems particularly excited tonight,” Donnacha added, sending a glance Liam’s way.

The sickening feeling in Maeve’s stomach intensified. Everything about this meeting felt off, yet she bit down on her nerves in a futile attempt to contain them.

A second later, a door burst open, and the mood in the bar shifted as her father walked in with two bodyguards flanking him on either side.

He was the same tattooed bald man she had known all her life, and he was grinning at them—more at her than Fedya—as he took a seat in the space the three men had created just for him.

The sight of him conjured so many dark memories she’d buried deep and long ago. And if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was happy to see her.

“Well, well,” Cormac started, his voice like a clap of thunder in the bar. “Don’t we all just love a family reunion?”

Maeve’s spine straightened on the chair. “Glad to see you were able to spare some time to show up in a meeting that you arranged.”

Her father didn’t flinch or scold her for the tone she used with him.

His eyes briefly darted to her hand interlaced with Fedya’s on her thigh, and she quickly withdrew her fingers, not wanting to give him the impression that they’d developed an actual bond.

That would ruin things right now, especially since he believed she was doing what he asked.

“I’ve missed you dearly, A stor ,” he said, his eyes moving to Fedya. “You’ve done a fine job looking after my daughter, Jonathan.”

“As is my responsibility as her husband,” Fedya responded with a polite tilt of his head.

He was playing his role as flawlessly as ever, but Maeve could feel it in her guts, in the subtle clench of his fingers around her thigh.

He didn’t trust as meeting as much as she did. And she didn’t trust it at all.

“Margot,” Maeve said, shifting his focus back to her. “You promised me you’d keep her alive. How is she?”

“Has she told you about Margot?” Cormac asked, moving back to Fedya.

“It doesn’t seem like she has. Your wife was only six years old when her mother died.

Lydia was unlucky to have died the way she did, her skull smashed by a tire after trying to flee an ambush caused by a few men whose toes I’d stepped on. ”

Maeve bristled in her seat, anger coiling deep inside her.

Cormac leaned in, his eyes alight as he continued, “Margot, however, has been playing Lydia’s role in her life since then. It’s why she’s so attached to my staff. It’s a little sickening, really, that she loves this woman more than she loves me.”

“Mom was unfortunate, yes,” Maeve spat through gritted teeth. “Unfortunate that she married a selfish bastard who did nothing to protect her.”

“Easy, little Maeve,” Liam smiled across the table. “That’s no way to speak to your father. Especially not in front of your husband.”

“Marriage gives you wings, I suppose,” Cormac smiled, shaking his head like she was just another spoiled child.

If Maeve didn’t shut her mouth, things would escalate and become ugly. Fortunately, Fedya was smart enough not to step on Cormac’s toes the way she did.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Fedya—Jonathan—smiled, shaking his head. “She says things she doesn’t mean when she gets angry.”

Cormac nodded in agreement. “That sounds like my daughter indeed.”

To Maeve, he said, “Margot is alive and well. I never go back on my promises, A stor . You should do well to remember that.”

Maeve was going to vomit.

Her skin prickled with the dozens of eyes that were centered on both of them. She stood abruptly, her features twisted in a grimace.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she muttered as she left the booth.

Fedya straightened, as if to follow. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” She waved him off, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

His hesitance was clear as day, but he nodded anyway, his eyes never leaving her as she disappeared from view. Perhaps that was the only sense of comfort she felt since she walked into this godforsaken bar.

She walked briskly towards the hallway, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she turned the corner to the corridor that led to the bathroom.

It was déjà vu all over again. The last time she’d been here, she was spilling her guts out after witnessing Fedya—then, Jonathan—supposedly killing a man whom she only found out two days ago wasn’t even dead.

And one month later, she was back, barely holding herself together as she gripped the edges of the sink.

Her stomach lurched, but she willed herself not to vomit.

She could almost hear Margot’s voice in these very walls, telling her to run as quickly as she could before Cormac could trap her in a marriage with the strange arms dealer in the bar.

The door opened carefully this time, and lo and behold, there was Margot. She rushed towards her in a hug that caused tears to blur Maeve’s vision. It felt too coincidental to be real, but it was. Margot was here, holding her, both of them trembling slightly.

God, she’d missed her so much she could barely breathe.

“Maeve,” Margot whispered. Maeve had never seen the woman so expressively emotional.

“You’re alive,” Maeve responded, her breath stuck in her throat. “For a second down there, I really thought you were dead.”

“Your father told me,” The woman said, fighting back angry tears. “He told me how he’d used me to force you into this marriage. I—”

Maeve barely heard the rest of it. That wave of nausea struck again, stronger this time, unbearable and uncontainable. She stumbled to the sink, barely making it before retching into the basin, her eyes burning at the corners like acid had been sprayed into them.

Behind her, Margot was rubbing her back, concern etched into her face. “Maeve—”

“I think it’s the smell,” Maeve said, flipping the tap on. She was irritated by her reflection in the mirror. “Then again, I might be sick. I’ve been feeling a bit sick for a little over a week now.”

Maeve didn’t like the way Margot was staring at her. “A week?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” she wiped her mouth. “A flu, maybe? I’ve just been getting these stupid headaches and waking up with nausea.”

Margot stepped away for a moment, checking the stalls of the bathroom to be sure they were alone. She stepped outside for a second, came back in, and locked the door.

“Your husband,” Margot asked seriously, her eyes stern. “Have you been sleeping with him?”

Maeve clenched her teeth, feeling a rush of blood in her cheeks. She couldn’t be sure if Margot knew who Jonathan really was, but still she couldn’t help but feel a sudden prick of shame, like she’d been sleeping with the enemy Margot had warned her against.

“Yes,” she didn’t bother denying it. “I’m a woman. I have needs. So what?”

“And when was the last time you had your period?”

Maeve felt the blood curdle in her veins. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

Margot stared at her intensely, like she was tracing every line of her face.

Maeve shifted uneasily. “What is it?”

“You’re late, aren’t you?”

“No.” Maeve’s voice was sharp, like a knife slicing into Margot’s thing. Her eyes flared. “I’m not. Don’t even think about saying it.”

Margot looked at her like she already knew. “You need to take a test.”

Oh god.

Maeve could feel tears pushing against the back of her eyes. She curled her hands into fists, pressing one against her mouth as she glanced at her reflection again. She suddenly looked so tired, so exhausted.

She turned back to Margot, held her shoulders tight, and lowered her voice until it was barely more than a whisper, “You can’t tell anyone about this. Not a single word. Especially not to my father.” Maeve shook her. “Please, Margot. Please, promise me you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Margot exhaled slowly. “But you need to be careful.”

The thought that she might be pregnant for Fedya made alarms blare in Maeve’s head.

Margot dug into her pocket and handed over a small black burner phone. “From your father. He suspects your line’s being tapped. It’s why he hasn’t called you again.”

If only they knew it had been destroyed.

Maeve stared at the phone like it might burn her. Her mind was all over the place, her hands trembling as she took it.

“And Maeve,” Margot lowered her voice now, fear swirling in the brown irises of her eyes.

“Aleksander’s here. Somewhere in the bar, watching their interaction.

I don’t know what they’ve planned, but Cormac insisted on backup.

There’s no doubt they’ve called your husband here tonight to send the Nikolais a message.

If Aleksander’s around, something’s coming. ”

“Oh god, no,” Maeve whispered, her pulse spiked as she went round Margot and headed for the door. “Christ, I have to warn him.”

She was already hurrying back to where she had left them.

The room was still intact when she returned, her heart thundering in her chest. Fedya and Cormac were both seated, still playing their parts.

For a second, she let her eyes scan the bar, wondering which of the piercing eyes belonged to Aleksander.

She’d never seen him and had no clue what he looked like.

But there was no time. She had to warn Fedya, and they needed to get out as soon as they could.

“Jonathan,” she called before she reached the booth. Heads turned to her, as well as her father’s. It was a bold move, calling him in front of whoever was listening, but she didn’t have the time to think about how stupid it was.

“I’d like to go home now.”

Fedya stood up just in time for the first shot to shatter a glass behind the bar.