Chapter 26
The ballroom was so beautiful it almost seemed otherworldly.
Of course, Sergei and Joia Sidorov couldn’t just throw a little reception and call it a day.
These people had to host some glittering, over-the-top, old money-new money-international criminal-money type of event.
It looked like it belonged in a movie where everybody was rich and glamorous and dangerous.
Crystal chandeliers poured light over everything, making the room look dipped in gold.
Soft ivory and champagne fabric draped from the impossibly high ceilings, and flowers—Lord, the flowers—were everywhere.
There were lush centerpieces in creamy whites and pale blush, huge bouquets of roses, orchids, and peonies.
This ballroom smelled like flowers, expensive perfumes, and money.
Real money. Not the “we doing okay” kind of money my family had.
Nah, this was “we might own part of a government somewhere” money.
But somehow, despite all the opulence and extravagance, the room felt welcoming.
It definitely reflected my beautiful in-laws.
It didn’t feel like Sergei and Joia were just showing off for Texas’s elite.
It felt like they were showing out for Targen, their beautiful, difficult, scarred, terrifying, loyal son.
He was the one they both called their baby boy, something that was both ludicrous and too sweet.
I knew from talking to my husband and watching his parents, that they had worried over and poured into him.
It showed tonight in the way that they had decided to honor our marriage with all the glamor and glitz that they could buy.
There was so much love in this room, and I loved that for us.
Yep, I said us, because three days with my husband's black card and Ms. Joia’s stylists meant I was there on Targen’s arm, all done up and sparkling like I belonged.
I was starting to feel like I did. Especially after last night’s date night.
I felt as gorgeous as this room, in my luminous gold gown that showed off my skin, making it look all honeyed and glowy, the way my husband had lusted over in that piece Rielle read.
Every time I moved, the fabric whispered around my legs like it was showing off, too.
My hair had been styled away from my face, but some soft curls still popped free, softening the look.
My makeup was done just enough to make my lips look fuller and my eyes look bigger.
Targen had seen me at the top of the stairs earlier, and his mouth had fallen open.
That alone had been worth the trouble of getting dressed.
I thought he’d loved last night’s little black dress, but the way he’d looked at me tonight…
Yep! This marriage was getting consummated sooner rather than later.
Now, as we made our way through the ballroom, shaking hands and smiling and receiving congratulations from people whose names I immediately forgot, his hand stayed on my back. It was warm, possessive, and strangely comforting.
“You doing all right, milaya?” he asked quietly.
I turned my face toward him and had to stop myself from gawking again.
He looked criminal. Yeah, he literally was, but I meant figuratively.
If how good he looked weren't against the law, it should be.
Targen wore a black tux with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie.
He was the definition of tall, somewhat dark, and handsome.
His silver-gray eyes kept scanning the room, but his handsome face was all calm and controlled.
My husband was beautiful. Shit was unfair.
“I’m fine,” I murmured. “You?”
A devious smile curved his lips. “I’m better now that you stopped looking at me like you wanted to lick me.”
I scowled at him, nose and lip upturned. “I was not looking at you like that.”
“You were.”
“Targen.”
“You still are.”
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed with a blush. “You something else.”
His smile widened. “And yet, you still married me.”
“Umm…That wasn’t exactly my choice, if memory serves me correctly,” I popped at him.
He bent closer, just enough that the warmth of his breath brushed my ear. “You ain’t ran again.”
I kissed my teeth. “You so full of yourself.”
“You could be full of me, too, but you playing,” he taunted, his voice a low, sexy rasp.
I set myself up for that. But it didn't stop the soft feeling that spread through me or the heat that pooled in my center at the thought. I was overheated suddenly and had no quick comeback. Instead, I let my gaze slide around the ballroom again. I saw Everly and Real making small talk with Targen’s parents.
My family by marriage was cool—well, except Maxim’s mean ass.
My sister was supposed to be here soon. I wondered if she was bringing a plus one.
I wondered if that likely plus one would let her leave him.
Servers strolled by with trays of champagne and tiny, beautiful little foods that looked too pretty to eat.
A live band played something smooth and jazzy over near the dance floor.
And the people… these women glittered in jewels and silk and satin.
The men were adorned in tailored suits and polished shoes and moved like they had a high bank account or a high body count.
Everybody looked rich, refined, and a little bit deadly.
“This is so crazy,” I whispered.
Targen’s hand spread more fully against my back. “Too much?”
I surprised both of us by shaking my head. “No. Actually… it’s kind of amazing.”
He looked down at me then, his expression softening just a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His thumb moved once against my spine before he straightened again, all cool composure returning as another couple stopped us to speak. I smiled and nodded and let them talk, but in the back of my mind, I kept thinking the same thing: I liked being on his arm, maybe more than I should have.
At some point, Sergei made a little speech in his beautifully-accented English and then in Russian, one hand lifted toward us like he was proud to show off his malysh mal'chik. Joia stood beside him looking elegant and emotional. She pressed one hand to her chest then to her mouth when she looked at me and Targen, her brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. People clapped. Glasses lifted. Someone called out something in Russian that made laughter ripple through one side of the room. I didn’t understand most of it, but thanks to Andrei and Ms. Joia, I understood enough.
This night was for him, for us. That thought had me smiling into my champagne until the vibe in the room shifted.
At first, I thought I imagined it. The sudden hush, then whispers, as heads started turning. Conversations stopped. Even the band got weird for a second, like they didn’t know whether to keep playing or stop.
I looked toward the grand staircase and there she was.
Long, dark locs bounced wildly around her shoulders, and her legs, bare beneath a white dress shirt that clearly did not belong to her, stormed down the stairs.
Shorty had murder in her face and fire in her eyes.
She was beautiful and clearly furious enough to set the ballroom blazing with one look.
“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the room.
The rest of the noise died.
My head turned so fast toward Maxim I almost got dizzy. The pakhan, who always tried to look so together, was ruffled.
For real ruffled.
I mean, he wasn't acting in a dramatic, losing-his-mind kind of way. Maxim’s posture was still perfect, his suit still immaculate.
But his face… a muscle was doing jumping jacks in his jaw and his cold eyes looked both mad and kinda fascinated.
Like this woman would’ve had all his attention even if she weren't crashing our reception half-dressed.
Yeah, something had cracked in that chilly calm of his.
Even I realized how rare that had to be.
The woman’s chest was rising and falling quickly under what was obviously his shirt. His shirt. Not hers. His.
I smiled. Oh, this was messy.
“Targen,” I whispered.
His eyes never left his brother. “Hmm?”
“Who is that?”
He smiled big, like flat out grinned. He was enjoying this, too. “That is Hurricane Seraph and my brother is right in her eye.”
Seraph descended the last few stairs and kept going, straight toward Maxim like she couldn’t see the obviously armed men circling the room or be bothered to think about the danger of speaking to him like that in public. I had a feeling she didn't care.
“I asked you a question,” she snapped. “Where is my son?”
Son? Aww, shit.
Maxim moved then, smooth but fast, covering the distance between them before anyone else could intervene.
He said something to her in Russian, low and cold, but whatever it was did not calm her down.
She hissed something back that sounded like a curse.
A few people looked scandalized. A few more looked intrigued. Okay, it was me; I was intrigued.
“She fine as hell, then she has the nerve to be talking to him like that. I think I love her,” I murmured.
That made Targen side-eye me. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“On the wrong shit.”
But his own mouth curved again.
“I do not care what this is. You answer me, or I will fuck this all up,” Seraph threatened as Maxim continued his fiercely whispered conversation with her.
He inclined his head toward Targen and me. Seraph looked, her eyes meeting mine, and a moment of regret clouded her perfect face.
“Sorry,” she said tightly.
I lifted my glass. “Do you, sis. You got it? You need backup?”
“Theory!” Targen hissed as his father laughed.