“About…what? Him fucking other women?” I spit. “We did not.”
“No, I mean…” Her mouth twists. “Look, I do know a bunch of girls who’ve had arranged mafia marriages, okay? Some of them turned out great, and it ends up they’re head-over-heels for their arranged husband. Others, not so much. But most of them, regardless of how things are between them, have ‘the talk’ before they get hitched.”
I frown. “What the fuck is the talk?”
Milena shrugs elegantly. “The ‘are we exclusive’ talk.”
“What?”
“Think about it,” she says. “You’re forced to marry someone, usually someone you don’t really know. You’re supposed to spend your lives together so that one family can do business with another, or so that people don’t go to war. Maybe you get lucky and they’re hot, and you click with them. But maybe you don’t. And anyone who says sex isn’t a basic human need is lying. So…”
I stare at her. “You mean there are people who go into arranged marriages and then…”
“Give each other permission to fuck around because they’re not into each other? Um, yeah.”
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat.
“So you and Kratos….”
I shake my head. “There wasn’t ever a talk.”
She nods, clearly unsatisfied.
“What?”
Milena makes a face. “Well, then you also never had a talk specifying that you’re exclusive with each other, right?”
“We’re fucking married,” I hiss angrily, waving my ring finger in her face. “Call me old-fashioned, but I was pretty fucking sure that implied exclusivity.”
“Not so much in our world, B,” she says quietly, making a face. “I’m sorry, but…” she shrugs again. “That’s our world.”
I turn away, feeling sick as I shove my fingers through my hair. I suck in air, shaking with rage.
That asshole. That fucking ASSHOLE.
And I hate that it hurts this much. That it’s not just that I feel duped, or lied to.
It’s that I truly feel cheated on.
“But, I mean, given what you saw today…” Milena says gently. “I think it’s fair to say you’re free to do what you want too, right? I mean, he clearly is.”
I turn to her, my mouth set. She makes a face.
“Sorry, girl,” she mumbles. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“It’s fine,” I grumble, looking away.
“Hey, we’re here, right?” she says brightly, trying to cheer me up. “Let’s go dance. I’ll even do another tequila shot with you.”
My lips twist as I half smile at her. “I might hang out here another minute or two.”
She nods and squeezes my arm. “You want company, or brooding solitude?”
“Brooding solitude sounds dandy right now.”
She smiles comfortingly. “I’ll be at the bar downstairs making sure Naomi doesn’t make bad decisions. Come find us when you’re ready, okay?”
When she’s gone, I move to the edge of the rooftop patio, away from the other laughing club-goers. At the railing, I glare out over the city, my heart twisting as anger stabs through me.
I hate that I’m this mad. Hate that I never saw this coming.
But mostly, I hate that I caught feelings for a man who warned me a thousand different ways himself that he wasn’t capable of reciprocating them.
Brutal fucking. Violence and sex. That’s what Kratos and I have. That’s what we share.
Nothing else.
Angrily, I yank out my phone out. I absently doom-scroll TikTok for a while, trying to clear my mind of lurid images involving Kratos and that woman fucking. When it doesn’t work, I switch to Instagram. When that also fails to take my mind off things, suddenly, another thought crosses my mind.
I think it’s fair to say you’re free to do what you want too, right?
In a heartbeat, I’m opening the Club Venom site and logging in to my fake account.
It’s not that I even want anyone else. And I hate that. I hate that even though he’s apparently fine screwing some other woman, I still only want him.
I glare at my profile screen: not a single new match. No new messages. Nothing.
Pouting and feeling the heady effect of that last shot, my eyes slide up to the top of the screen.