Chapter 11 #2
“What’s up with her? I just said she could keep her position as lead knot-worker, and she’s still upset?” I ask. “Has he bitten her? Because, again, I don’t see how that would change our wedding plans.”
The Russian exchanged between the three of them is fast and vicious. They point and glare, talking as if I am not here, which works fine because my breakfast arrives.
I was starting to feel something like kindred sympathy towards them, but my opinion plummets when I notice I’m the only one eating.
I’m firmly entrenched in the mindset of everything in moderation, including fucking food.
It looks like the girls are into unhealthy eating habits to keep their svelte figures.
My opinion on them drops down further as they start giggling together with every bite I take.
Since I’m so entertaining, I make sure to use all the butter, slathering it on my toast, as well as putting the entire serving of jam on my syrnikis.
The schoolyard fun gets interrupted when a staff member suddenly appears, talking to Barbie.
In the conversation, I make out “Mr. Petrov” easily, and the way the girls race out of the room leads me to believe my little honeybee is home.
Reaching over for the pot of coffee, I doomscroll while finishing my breakfast. I’ve barely taken a sip, and the man of the moment appears.
Sergey Petrov is a good-looking Alpha. He must be close to six feet tall, and his physique suggests he’s more into my version of a healthy lifestyle than the girls’.
I already was aware he is older than me, but there’s no suggestion of our age difference in his appearance, because Sergey likes to look after himself.
And I think he also likes filler, Botox, and anything else available.
It’s easy to look past his ebony color hair and his topaz eyes when you can see the real him shining back at you.
“Where’s my pretty girls?” he asks in English. His Russian accent makes his words sound overly harsh, or that could just be the way he speaks.
“They were just here. Perhaps they’ve gone up to your suite to welcome you back,” I say, holding his stare, but I can’t do it for long.
He takes a seat at the head of the table, and in moments, his staff has delivered everything he would need or possibly want.
He has a plate of food in front of him, other plates within easy reach, and a large, ornate silver pot of tea.
He eyes my coffee with disdain before he snatches it, tips it out onto the carpet, and refills it with black tea.
“My house, my rules.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” I offer back, quietly.
And not because I’m intimidated, but because I’m smart enough to be cautious. Two seconds in his presence, and it’s obvious it’s his way or the highway. It’s also clear in the way he looks at me that his arrogance could turn to violence in the blink of an eye.
“Good,” he barks before ignoring me as he starts to eat.
The way the table is set means we're in each other’s view. Not that he pays me any attention. I sip on my tea, which is putridly bitter and somehow intensifies with each sip I take. Exactly like his scent.
Sergey Petrov smells like coffee that has been burned, left in a pot all day, then burned again. It’s hard to sit still and act docile, when my alarm system is screaming at me to get away from him.
He also eats with the table manners of a child and the pomposity of someone who doesn’t give a shit what others think of him.
I keep taking small sips of the tea to hide my reaction.
I’m not going to be able to freak out every time he walks into a room, so I need to get used to his presence—and scent—pronto.
Eventually, he leans back in his chair. I hope it means he’s about to dismiss me, so I can go stand under a cold shower to get his smell off my skin before spending the afternoon coming up with a better game plan.
Instead, it’s Barbie that brings relief.
“Sergey, you should have told me you were coming home early,” she croons lyrically—in English—like a songbird. She glides across the room like one too. Her stunning pink, silky dress that dips dangerously low at the front flutters behind her.
Her scent is even more put-on than her sex-doll persona.
So put-on that it defies normal designation boundaries.
The mere thought makes me look at her differently.
Letting my cynical side come out to play, I start listing off everything that’s fake about her.
Her nose is way too pointed and, dare I say it, perfect.
Her rosebud lips rouse the same suspicions she’s got a great plastic surgeon on hand.
I kind of give myself a high-five because this girl, perching on my fiancée’s lap and whispering into his ear, is as plastic as Mattel’s Barbie.
She’s fake across the board, including her designation. I’d put money on her being a Beta, using creams and probably medication to glide over the fact she’s not an Omega.
“Bambi,” he growls, licking into her mouth.
As soon as her name registers, I lose it. The mouthful of tea I had just taken sprays over the table.
“Fuck my life,” I gasp under a flurry of coughs to hide the laughter about to get me in some very serious trouble. “I’m sorry.” I turn, dropping my eyes and being as meek as ever. “The tea is extremely strong. I’m not used to it.”
Thankfully, Bambi is busy reminding Sergey of all the reasons he should marry her. They pay me no attention as I stand, but I am not keen on watching them reunite either. Racing out of the breakfast room, I narrowly avoid colliding with the other members of Bambi’s girl gang.
I make it past the guard before my control slips, and I start laughing so hard I fold in half, struggling to breathe. I was so close to getting her name right to start with, but her name really suits. I have to do a countdown back from twenty to get a grip of my giggles.
By the time I stop at one, I’m mostly in control and back on my side of the house.
And I’m not alone anymore.