She slinks through the lobby, every bit the predator.
Most people wouldn’t notice. Most men wouldn’t see past the legs, the dress, the hair.
Unlike me, who sees everything.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the danger she exudes, she’s absolutely stunning.
Nika projects the kind of elegance and grace that halts conversations, that inspires normal people to spare her a second glance.
She’s a masterpiece in an art exhibit, and she knows how to use that to her advantage. The dress isn’t just clothing. It’s a distraction, a tool meant to rearrange the playing field. This woman didn’t just follow me. She came prepared.
Lethalandadaptable.
Who the fuck is Anika Kozlov?
Roman’s pampered daughter, presumed dead for a decade and a half, has returned not as a traumatized victim but as an assassin. A hunter. Someone who can silently hop across carhoods and put a knife to my throat before I even register her presence.
Who raised her? Who molded a nine-year-old girl into a weapon?
As Nika scans the crowd, I don’t try to hide. I just watch.
Her gaze sweeps past me, then backtracks.
Our eyes lock.
She’s fifty feet away, hovering just inside the entrance with mist glistening on her shoulders.
I rake my eyes down her throat, shoulder, and the swell of her breasts under the dress. Then lower, along the slit that reveals a lengthy expanse of leg. All the way down to those delectable red heels.
My perusal conveys a silent message.
I see you. I know what you’re doing. And it won’t work on me.
Except that’s not entirely true.
My body responds against my will. Muscles coil low in my gut, and the spreading warmth disrupts the cold calculation in my head.
She’s dangerous and beautiful. I want to pin her against the lobby wall, wrap my hand around her throat, and teach her just what it means to be prey. I could pull her into some empty hallway?—
No.
I shove that thought in the same place I store everything else that’s inconvenient, weak, or human.
Her eyes narrow, and she tilts her chin up. Her expression shifts, not with surprise but acknowledgment. Like she feels the magnetism too.
An unwanted current sizzles between us.
I gift her a smile void of the fake charm I used on the women in the alley. A predator’s smile. A challenge. Then I stride up to the registration desk.
The woman in the blazer peers up as I approach. “Good evening. Name, please?”
“Edwards.” I glance over her shoulder as if searching for the older woman from before.
The blazered woman scrolls her tablet. “First name?”
“Mick.”
Apparently, she finds something close enough. “Of course. Welcome, Mr. Edwards. The ballroom is straight through those doors. Enjoy your evening.”
