Page 23 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

Audrey lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Igor. You can’t just fire him without reason.”

I have a reason. The idiot had his eyes on my wife for almost a minute, and he even dared to swallow like she was an object crafted to please him.

I barely blame the lad, though. It’s not his fault she’s fucking hot, but I don’t give a shit about exonerating him. He’s lucky he still has eyes.

“You’re wrong. I can.”

She leans back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, amusement dancing in those hazel eyes that have always been far too expressive. “You think I don’t know what this is about? You’re firing him because he looked at me.”

If I thought Dan was afraid before, then the horror on his face right now goes beyond terror. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again.”

I don’t answer.

“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again,” Audrey tells him, then waves her hand to dismiss him. “You can leave.”

Dan glances at me, but he doesn’t wait for my reaction before he scurries off to the kitchen.

I straighten and stare intently at the woman sitting across from me. No one around me has ever dared to override my orders before now. I’m amazed by this woman’s audacity and how little she seems to fear me, which comes as a shock because most people are terrified of me.

“I didn’t give you the right to dismiss him.”

She cocks a brow, then continues eating as if she doesn’t care about my reaction. “I didn’t need your permission.”

“This is my house.”

“And I’m your wife.” She raises her head and shoots a daring smile at me. “Not a pretty puppet for your power games. I’ll do whatever I want, with or without your permission.”

Instead of anger, amusement swells inside me. I have a feeling things are going to get interesting from here on out, and I can’t wait to see what my little wife has in store for me. Looks like I didn’t make the wrong decision in marrying her after all. I love a good challenge.

“Do as you please,” is all I say before filling my own plate with grilled sausages, baked beans, and stir-fried veggies.

“When are you moving your things out?”

I tilt my head. “Moving my things out from where?”

She rolls her eyes as if she’s annoyed that she has to explain herself. “The master bedroom. I can’t share a room with you.”

I snort, amused. “We’re married.”

She nods once. “True, but only because you threatened me and said it’s only for appearances.”

I feign ignorance for the sole purpose of annoying her. “Did I?”

“Are you having early-onset dementia? It could be a good time to write your will,” she retorts, and the sarcasm dripping in her tone makes me smirk.

“You won’t be in my will.” I clear my throat, serious now. “We’re sharing the master bedroom, and you’d better get used to the idea of us being married. I’ve told you, you won’t escape me again.”

“Can’t I?” Mischief dances in her hazel eyes. “I think I could if I murdered you in your sleep.”

“Good luck with that,” I tell her, raising my glass of juice to toast her. “You’d be dead before you even made it out of the room. I’d need company in the afterlife, you know.”

She glares at me, then sighs. “You’re insane.”

I chuckle. “That makes two of us.”

Clearly annoyed the conversation didn’t go how she intended, she pushes up from her seat. “I’ll have my things moved to the master dressing room today. You can have your stuff moved to the guest room.”

With that, she walks away gingerly.