Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“What’s different about you?”

On the inside, I’m wincing hard. I’ve been terrified of this exact question ever since Phoebe called me up yesterday and suggested we go out for lunch. I keep my face perfectly composed as I answer. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Even to my own ears, I sound fake as hell and twice as guilty. This might just be the first time I’ve ever had to lie to Phoebe. It’s not as though I’m kicking off this new phase in our friendship with a small secret, either. It’s a whopper of one—a six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound secret in a Tom Ford suit and Patek Philippe wristwatch.

“Hm.” Phoebe drapes her coat over the backrest of her chair and fixes me with an intense stare. “Is there something I should know?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “You just seem a little different. There’s, like, a bounce in your step.”

Okay, she may have a point, but it has nothing to do with Ruslan. At least, not in the sense that I’m catching feelings or anything. I’m just riding the sex high straight into Orgasm Town. It’s a nice place to be. Especially with someone who knows his way around the bedroom like Ruslan does.

“Oh my God!” Phoebe gasps. “You got laid!”

She blurts it so loudly that the people sitting at the tables on either side turn around to stare at us. Fantastic. Now, the whole world knows.

I avoid all eye contact from the gawkers and lean in toward Phoebe. “First of all—no! And second of all—shhh!”

Phoebe waves away my horror. “Pshh, please. New Yorkers don’t care about a damn thing. And you were blushing just then! What were you thinking?”

Orgasm Town.

“Nothing! I’m just earning a little extra cash, okay? Maybe that’s why I apparently have this alleged ‘bounce’ in my step. It’s nice to put a dent in those loans.” I exhale sharply. I almost let it slip that they’ve all been paid, but that would be a huge tipoff I literally cannot afford to make. “You have no idea what a relief it is to know for sure that you won’t run out of money at the end of the month.”

I might be hamming it up just a little. But I really need to sell this story.

Unfortunately, Phoebe’s eyes narrow and she sucks in her cheeks. I know from personal experience that nothing good can come from that expression. “You may not be lying to me, but you’re not telling me the whole truth, either.”

I avoid her gaze by picking at my almond croissant. “Listen, Pheebs—”

“There is a guy, isn’t there?” She grabs my wrist and I’m forced to meet her eyes.

I squirm in my seat, feeling the weight of that contract settle on my shoulders. It was very clear. But half an hour with my bestie and I’m already cracking under pressure.

“There’s a… guy, of sorts,” I concede. “But I wasn’t gonna tell you because it’s not serious.” My chest feels super tight and I’ve completely lost my appetite. And that’s saying something, because Choux-Choux Cafe’s almond croissant is like manna from heaven with crack cocaine dusted on top.

“Um, hello? I’m the queen of casual sex,” she reminds me.

I cringe. “Not the same thing.” The monogamy part of the contract flashes before my mind’s eye. “It’s… complicated.”

Phoebe frowns. Those dark brown eyes of hers can be penetrating when she cranks the power up to full blast. “Complicated how?”

“You know how these things are.”

“I know how casual sex works, sure. But the whole point of casual sex is that it’s not complicated.” She raises one eyebrow. “Unless…”

“Pheebs, don’t—”

“Unless you have feelings for this guy.”

“No!”

She sets down her espresso and leans back in her chair. “Well, that was certainly emphatic.”

“Only because I do not have feelings for this—”

Phoebe gasps. “It’s the bosshole!”

Fuck. Me.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” She laughs triumphantly and punches the air. “I fucking knew it! Something’s been brewing between the two of you for a while now. It was only a matter of time.”

“That is—”

“One hundred percent true, is what it is. You just didn’t want to see it because you hate him so much. Correction: you hated him so much.”

“Oh, I still do,” I admit before I tack on a reluctant, “… sometimes.”

Phoebe claps a hand over her heart and gives me a wistful smile. “I am so happy for you. I cannot even put it into words. Now, let’s get to the really important stuff: what’s he like in bed? He’s good, right? He has to be. With that face, that body, those juicy forearms—”

“Pheebs!”

“What?”

“You cannot tell a soul!”

Her eyes reach full-on Bambi levels of innocence. “Who would I even tell?”

“Just—anyone. This is secret information. As in top secret. Classified. Area 51-type stuff.”

Phoebe sobers up just a bit. “Why do you sound so scared, Em?”

How on earth do I explain to Phoebe that I’ve just voided a legally-binding contract I signed a little over a week ago? How do I make her understand that one of the main conditions of my agreement with Ruslan is that I keep my mouth shut about it and that I’m already failing miserably? Of course, I can’t do that without mentioning the agreement in the first place.

I’m stuck between a place and a rock-hard—wait, that’s not how that goes.

“I just really want to keep this under wraps.”

“Was that your idea or his?” Phoebe asks shrewdly.

“We both agreed.”

She’s chewing on her bottom lip now. “You remember Edward, right?”

My mouth turns down at the mere mention of his name. “Oh, do I remember Edward…”

He and Phoebe were only involved for about a year, but it was an intense year. She was twenty; he was forty-two. At the time, she was a struggling college student and he was the owner of a chain of high-end spas and salons spread across New York. It was a match made in hell.

“He had a habit of making me believe I’d made… certain decisions… when he was the one pulling my strings.”

“That’s not what’s happening here.”

At least, I don’t think.

She nods. “All I’m saying is, beware of men like Edward. Handsome, powerful, richer-than-God? That’s bad news. They’ll shower you with luxury—roses, clothes, jewelry, fancy meals in fancy restaurants. But they’re stingy when it comes to the things that really count. Men like that can be dangerous to the heart.” She points a finger at my chest. “Because they refuse to share theirs.”

I suppress a shiver rocking me from head to toe. “I understand what you’re saying, but trust me: I’m under no illusions as to what Ruslan and I are. We have sex. No feelings, no expectations, no nothing. Just sex. End of story.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Which is great—if you can keep your feelings out of it. The question is: can you?”