Wrong time. Wrong place. Apparently, wrong person. “How about instead of killing Lawrence, you find your cousin another boyfriend?”
“But that’s not as much fun.” Natasha pouted, and it might have seemed guileless if not for the steely glint in her gaze.
Who was this woman? Because she obviously wasn’t just sweet Natasha, struggling student with no living family and the sweetest mouth.
This woman was hotter, and threatening his best friend, who obviously only held off for one reason.
Dean glanced at Lawrence and gave him a slight nod. Go ahead.
She must have had some gut sense, or her reflexes were just that good. When Lawrence shoved his knees between their bodies, she went cartwheeling away and landed in a crouch with her knife out and a smirk on her lips.
“I see someone has taken some self-defense lessons,” she taunted as Lawrence rose to his feet.
She never looked at Dean. Not once. Didn’t notice the biggest threat in that chapel. She kept her gaze on Lawrence, never noticing that Dean had begun circling behind her.
“Surely, we can talk about this,” his friend said.
“I’d rather just stop you from breaking the hearts of young susceptible girls.” She tossed the knife, and it only narrowly missed his friend.
But she didn’t seem to mind as she pulled another blade from her bodice. Exactly how many did she have hidden on her person?
“I’m sure Sasha will get over me.”
“Maybe, but I made her a promise. She said, ‘Tashy, the big, bad kitty made me sad.’ How could I say no?”
Dean almost laughed.
As for Lawrence, he’d yet to pull the gun he surely had concealed. Mostly because they were both conscious of the Elvis priest watching them. The very human priest. It was the reason he’d not striped out.
But Natasha didn’t seem to care that they had an audience. “Are you going to make me chase you in a skirt, or take your punishment like a man?”
“Funny you should mention punishment.” Dean growled as he lunged, meaning to wrap his fiancée in a hug. Only she danced out of reach.
“Now, now. No reason for you to get involved.” She shook the blade of her knife at him.
“I’d say I got involved the moment we both showed up to say our I dos.”
“I do believe I fooled you,” she taunted.
In that respect, she was right. Usually, Dean proved more cautious. But one sniff of his mate, and he’d lost all ability to see reason. Even now, he wanted to put his mouth on her neck, not tear it out. He yearned to lavish it with kisses before making his way past the bodice of that gown.
“Speaking of being fooled. I might not have been entirely honest either.”
“Meaning what?” she asked, finally keeping her gaze on Dean.
Lawrence took that opportunity to rush her from behind. Only she twirled, dropped to a knee, and threw her knife. It hit him in the upper shoulder, and he roared. His features began bristling, his body bulging, about to shift.
Elvis was chanting something about blue suede shoes and no place like home.
Dean shook his head. Not here. Not now. Lawrence hissed as he pulled the dagger free.
The single ring of a phone, chiming Ave Maria, had Natasha sighing. “I swear, her timing is shit.” She answered with one hand while pulling forth yet another knife with her other. “What is it, Sasha? I’m kind of busy cleaning up your mess.” She listened, her gaze bobbing between Dean and Lawrence.
Dean always prided himself on his great hearing, but even he couldn’t decipher what was said. He only saw Natasha nod before she put the phone away and tucked the knife into her bodice.
“It’s your lucky day! Sasha has found a new boyfriend and says while you are scum of the Earth, she looks forward to the day she sees you again because you are sure to be overcome with jealousy. You will suddenly realize how epic she is, and while she will initially deny you, in the end, you will have wild, sweaty sex.”
Lawrence understandably blinked. “What?”
“She’s saying you’re not dying anymore, dumbass,” Dean snapped. He’d gone past the point of shock into anger.
“Yay?” Lawrence stated, a hand clapped to his bleeding wound.
“You should go buy yourself a lottery ticket because this is your lucky day. It’s not often one of my targets walks free,” she announced.
The statement prompted Dean to ask, “Who are you, really?”
As if to make a mockery of the moment, Elvis chose to say, “Congratulations, she appears to be your wife.”
“Shut up!” They both turned to the guy, who suddenly hugged his bedazzled bible to his chest.
It was Lawrence who realized it first. “Holy catnip balls. She’s a Tigranov. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”
“Tigranov? As in related to the Russian tiger family?” Dean had known she was a striped feline, but given that he’d believed her lie of being an orphan, he’d never dug into her roots any deeper.
“Not just any Tigranov, if it makes you feel better,” she’d taunted. “The daughter of Sergeii Tigranov himself.”
“You’re the tsarina?” Lawrence huffed.
“In the flesh.” She swept a mocking bow, and then Natasha laughed, not sounding at all like the shy girl he’d known. There was a husky element to the sound. A taunting quality with a hint of evil.
“Unbelievable. You lied to me the entire time.”
“Don’t whine just because you were fooled.” She stood in her white wedding dress, still looking beautiful—actually more gorgeous with an aura of menace. She showed not an inch of fear despite antagonizing two capable men. It wasn’t just caution about her skills that held Dean back, but who she was.
A princess. A mob princess.
A lie he let walk out of that church.
A woman that turned out to be his wife.
And despite his better judgement, his mate.
Chapter Three
Why wasn’t the jerk saying or doing anything? He sat in the chair staring at Natasha, meaning she had time to notice that he’d not changed one bit in the months since their fake marriage. Still handsome, his jaw as square as she recalled. His body thick and toned, also relaxed. The man appeared the height of insouciance as he sat there sipping his whiskey. Meanwhile, her heart thumped, and she found herself breathless without having actually exerted herself. He’d always had this effect on her. The jerk.
“Dear wife.” He said it on purpose. “We shouldn’t be bickering, not when you do me such honor by visiting. Although might I recommend in the future that you use the front door? After all, mi casa es su casa.”
To think he was her husband. In name only. All their consummation had occurred before the wedding. She ground her teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Wife?” He smiled. All kinds of white pearlies, capable of soft, pleasurable nips, and tearing out of throats. She’d seen the pictures. She’d read his file—after the fact, and a little too late.
Her accidental husband was more than just a lazy tigon with too much money at his fingertips. He worked for the Pride Group. Hunted for them, actually. Was very good by all reports, and yet, he’d never seen her coming. It was a source of personal pride that she’d so thoroughly fooled him.