1
Laura
Maxim Ismailov stands at the edge of Nikolai’s ballroom as the party arranges itself around him—chandelier throwing fractured light, and blue confetti drifting from the ceiling. Not a sliver of the bright baby blue lands on him. Even paper knows to avoid him. We're all here to celebrate, but his glower is so deliciously wicked that I can't look away. As Zara's best friend, I should be reveling in her glowing happiness. Focusing on her joy—although Nikolai is all over that. He's terrifying, even more so when you realize he's Bratva. But seeing how he dotes on his wife and a child who isn't even here yet makes me wonder:would being with a guy from the Bratva be the worst choice in the world?
I look back at Maxim. He’s completely separate from the celebration. His black suit is clearly made for him, not bought off the rack. His expression says this room and everyone in it barely warrants his attention. Unfortunate, because I'd kill for it. I've never been this drawn to a man in my life. I'm two minutes awayfrom propositioning him and asking him for my first one-night stand. I sigh. Nothing wrong with fantasies, right? And if ever there was a walking fantasy, Maxim Ismailov is it.
Zara materializes at my elbow, snagging my attention in a rare moment away from Nikolai. “Stop drooling. I get wanting to dip your toe in the pool, but you don't start at the deep end.”
"You did."
"And I don't regret a thing." She rubs a hand over her belly again for the thousandth time. A pause. “But as crazy as my husband can be, Max is the one he calls when he needs someone even crazier. Believe me, I know.”
His eyes move in a slow arc across the room—unhurried, like a man who has never needed to rush—and land on mine. The lightest touch and my stomach drops clean through the floor. Not fear.Heat.An immediate, mortifying flare of it pooling low in my belly before I stop it. Three seconds of this man’s eyes and every nerve ending fires.
He looks away first.
Of course, he does. I'm not even a blip on his radar. That’s the end of it. He's the closest I've ever come to a man who made me feel alive and adventurous. Ready to take risks that other girls my age take all the time. No guilt. No thinking and overthinking it. They see someone they want, and they don't let the spark die out. No, they stoke the fire. And if I'm ever going to burn, then please God, let it be with a man like him.
Twenty minutes later, I follow him out of the ballroom. Twenty-two years of safe decisions, and I walk out of my best friend’s party behind a dangerous man. My heels click against marble the whole way down the corridor—every lesson Zara ever gave me about walking in stilettos gone, abandoned somewhere back in the ballroom with my common sense. The gown swishes with each step, silk announcing me to anyone paying attention. He stops at the bend in the corridor. His head tilts, barely, andthen he turns, and the emergency exit sign paints half his face red, and his dark blue eyes find mine with zero effort—straight to me, like there was never anywhere else to look.
“Okay.” That voice. Deep and level and completely, infuriatingly unhurried. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Every possible explanation dies on contact. “I’m nobody, I’m just Laura. I’m a friend of Zara’s. I was at the party?”
The silence is humiliating. My grip squeezes the clutch until the beads bite into my palm.
“But you’re not at the party now.” He steps closer—one stride, just one—and the corridor shrinks. “Why? Why are you following me?”
“I wasn’t following you, I just—I just left.”
“Do you think I’m a fool?”
Flat. Quiet. Final. Oh shit. His brows are lowered, and his eyes are narrowed to slits. I stare enthralled.Mesmerized. No more able to move than a deer in the proverbial headlights. So stunned that it takes me a minute to realize he's propelling me forward.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my suite.” His hand closes around my upper arm—iron, absolute, no negotiation in it—but his thumb sweeps the inside of my elbow once. The touch is surprisingly gentle despite his snarly, “If you can’t tell me the truth out here, I know how to get it out of you.”
My next breath comes out audible. Humiliating. His eyes drop to my throat, cataloging every bit of it.
He guides me to the elevator, and I go, which tells me everything I need to know about the state I’m in. This is real. This is happening. I'm being kidnapped by a dark and dangerous guy straight out of one of my Bratva romance books. Screaming for help might get me rescued. I bite my lip and don't even squeak.
The penthouse suite opens onto a city blazing thirty floors below. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Furniture carved from dark wood and money. A bar along one wall where he pours himself something amber and doesn’t offer to share. I stop in the middle of the room with my clutch pressed to my chest. “I was at a party, and left. That’s it. You’re making something out of nothing.”
“You followed me down a long hotel corridor.” He settles into the armchair across from me, legs spread, glass balanced on one knee, eyes moving over me with that same patient attention. “And before that you watched me from across a ballroom for twenty minutes.”
Wait a minute.“I didn’t—how do you know how long I was—”
“Who are you working for? Did someone hire you to take me out?”
A laugh bursts out of me. Then I do a double-take. He's kidding, right? “Are you serious right now? Anassassin?I teach first grade.“
“Haven't heard a no.”
“Call Nikolai. Right now. He will tell you exactly who I am.”
His eyes change—not much, and not for long. “I know who you are. Laura. Zara’s friend. Tremont Street, third floor.”
