Page 6 of Godless Saints

“Sounds strategic.” I shrugged.

“Sounds like you’re one bad decision away from writing his name on your ribs.”

“Wasn’t that serious.” The corner of my mouth curved, anyway.

Misha pushed to his feet, pacing between the pews. “Half the gallery saw you eye-fuck an Aster prince in front of God.”

“Wasn’t eye-fucking,” I said, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Was appreciating what’s already fucking mine.”

Sawyer Whitlock shoved himself between us and took Moon from me. So yeah. I was going to break his fucking shoulder for it.

The cathedral doors opened behind us. Misha turned first. I didn’t. I already knew who it was.

Aleksei Lovchy. Black coat buttoned tight to his throat, light hair swept back, pale eyes sweeping the room once. High cheekbones. Clean jaw. Mouth pressed into a flat line.

Same Lovchy blood as his twin. Nothing else in common.

Where Misha bounced through life like trouble looking for a good time, Aleksei looked like the consequence that showed up later to collect. He didn’t scan the crowd. He checked each person one by one. I stayed sprawled in the pew.

I watched Moon go and wondered how far he really thought he could run. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. The silver in his ears caught the light every time he turned his head. Open black shirt under the tan suit.

Fuck. Still hot. Still mine.

He wouldn’t get far. Not from me. Not after the way he’d looked at me in Saint Lucia, lips parted like he was terrified of how badly he wanted it.

“There you are,” Aleksei said.

Misha spread his arms wide. “Missed me, brother?”

Aleksei’s eyes cut straight to me. “Do I want to know why my twin brother is unsupervised with you, Ashbourne?”

Misha pointed at me like Exhibit A. “Cillian found religion.”

“No,” I said. “I’m appreciating craftsmanship.”

Aleksei pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Of course.”

“He means Moon,” Misha continued, far too helpful.

“I know what he means.”

“He was appreciating him.” Misha grinned wider. “With his eyes.”

“Misha.”

“And his thigh.”

Aleksei opened his eyes slowly. “No one in this Court understands discretion,” Aleksei said.

“I do,” Misha protested.

“You tried to bribe an MGIMO dean with stolen cognac and a wolf’s tooth.”

Misha pulled out his butterfly knife and started flipping it absently between his fingers. “First, it was excellent cognac.”

“It was stolen.”

“From family.”