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Becausehe’llbe there.
I haven’t seen him since my junior-year prom, but I know he’s been around, watching me. That feeling of a ghostly presence hovering over me, the feeling I dismissed before that fateful dance, is with me all the time. Somehow, he’s keeping tabs on me, ever ready to swoop in if I step a foot out of line. I don’t know if he truly wants me or if he’s acting on some bizarre territorial instinct, but I haven’t so much as smiled at a member of the opposite sex since that night. I don’t dare.
Two deaths on my conscience is plenty.
All of my friends are convinced I’m either asexual or a closet lesbian, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I want sexual intimacy with a man. I crave it. Half the time, when I wake up in the morning, it’s with the sheets tangled around my legs and my hands pressing between my thighs in a futile effort to quench the ache pulsing deep inside.
I’m eighteen and I’ve never been kissed, never been touched outside of that brief dance with poor Josh—may his remains rest in peace wherever they are.
“Ican talk to Alexei,” Nikolai says, his jaw set dangerously. “There’s no reason for her to deal with that asshole. He’ll back down. I’ll make him.”
“Not a good idea,” Valery says, as icy calm as always. “He hates all three of us and will press ahead with the announcement just to spite us. We’ll need serious leverage before we bring it up with him.” He looks at our oldest brother. “Konstantin, maybe you can—”
“It’s fine,” I say and take a breath. “I’ll talk to Alexei myself.”
As much as I want to let my brothers fight my battle, I know Valery is right. There’s bad blood between our families, always has been, and it wouldn’t take more than a spark to blow apart the fragile rapport Papa has established with Boris Leonov. Not that I care about Papa’s agenda or anything along those lines. I’m just worried that if Nikolai or Valery try to strong-arm Alexei with Konstantin’s help, it could backfire, and instead of the betrothal announcement getting postponed, I might find myself stolen away and married tomorrow.
The Leonovs are capable of anything and everything.
“Are you sure?” Konstantin asks, frowning at me. “He’s—”
“It’s fine.” It’s not—nothing about this is fine—but I don’t want my brothers dragged into my mess. At least not if I can handle it myself by growing some balls.
So what if Alexei is the man who haunts my dreams and nightmares? The one I can’t help thinking about each time I bring myself to the very edge of ecstasy, only to back off? I can still talk to him, make him see reason. No matter how he acted the night of that dance, he probably doesn’t want to be betrothed to me either and would welcome the opportunity to postpone the announcement indefinitely—if I approach him the right way.
“All right,” Nikolai says. “But let us know if he’s being difficult.”
“Don’t worry.” I smooth my damp palms over my dress and lift my chin, ignoring the heavy pounding of my heart. “I’ve got this.”
After all, I’m a Molotov as well.
* * *
The party is everythingmy parents hoped it would be—a spectacle so over-the-top it’ll be talked about in Moscow for years to come. The glitterati have turned out in full force. In addition to high-ranking government officials and local business moguls, attendees include international movie stars and supermodels, American tech billionaires, Italian fashion designers, and famous artists of all kinds. Every female’s neck and earlobes sport jewelry pieces worth more than most people’s houses, and the glamorous gowns and tuxedos filling the giant ballroom easily top what’s seen and drooled over at the Oscars. The entertainment is equally impressive. A famous Russian band is performing live throughout the night, and at midnight, Beyoncé will appear to sing one of her hits, followed by several other international pop stars. There will also be a dance performed by Bolshoi Ballet and an hour-long aerial acrobatics show by Cirque du Soleil.
Under other circumstances, I’d enjoy all of it, but with the conversation with Alexei hanging over my head, it’s all I can do to smile, shake hands, and exchange air kisses with the well-wishers. It seems as if everyone wants to talk to me, to comment on my gown, my jewelry, my looks. I field joking and not-so-joking inquiries about my dating life from friends and strangers alike—apparently, everybody thinks I should be paired up by now—and answer all sorts of probing questions about my post-graduation plans.
Why, yes, I’m starting at Columbia this fall. No, I didn’t consider a university in Paris. Thank you, but I have no interest in Fashion Design as a major. Economics and PoliSci, like Nikolai? No, that’s not really my cup of tea either. I’m more interested in Computer Science, like Konstantin.
Even as I say all this, I can’t help wondering if any of it is true. Am I starting at Columbia in a few weeks? Will I be able to study what I want? Live in New York City like I want? Because there’s a very real chance all of my plans are about to crash and burn. I’ve been making decisions about my future as if the betrothal contract didn’t exist and my life were my own, but that’s not the case. On paper, I belong to Alexei, and he could insist I attend a university in Moscow to be closer to him, or even not go to college at all. Of course, I have no intention of letting him dictate my life, but if my parents don’t side with me—and they’ve given zero indication that they would—it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make Columbia happen.
It’s yet another reason I need to talk to Alexei tonight. I need to know where he stands on this cursed betrothal, if he’s as opposed to it as I hope he is. After all, he’s young too, only twenty-three to my eighteen. What guy that age wants marriage? Or even the promise of it? True, Alexei is no ordinary twenty-something—rumor has it, he’s been running the Leonov organization behind the scenes for the past couple of years—but I bet he still likes to party and wouldn’t want a fiancée (or worse, a wife) cramping his style.
In fact, he might have some beauty warming his bed as we speak, helping him celebratehisbirthday tonight.
My stomach twists peculiarly at the thought, and I escape the crowd with an excuse about needing to use the bathroom. As much as I dread the upcoming confrontation with Alexei, it bothers me that I haven’t spotted him at the party yet. It’s still early in the evening, but heismy fucking betrothed. Shouldn’t he have been one of the first to wish me a happy birthday? Not that I want him to, but it would’ve been the polite, civilized thing to do. Then again, what do the Leonovs know about politeness and civilized behavior?
They’re savages, always have been.
I use the restroom and wash my hands before drying them on a soft towel offered by a uniformed bathroom attendant. To my relief, the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the modern-artsy floating sink reflects a young woman who’s all gloss and glitter, her cool smile hiding the turmoil within. Nobody looking at me would guess that I’m a nervous wreck with a rapidly intensifying headache, or that all I want is to return home to my room and fall asleep after sneaking a few desperately needed puffs.
Speaking of which… I exit the women’s restroom and make my way across the hall to the men’s. As I hoped, Vova is skulking by the entrance there, looking all fancy in his tailored tux and not at all like the high-end weed dealer that he is.
“The usual?” he asks at my approach, and I nod, passing him a couple of bills from my tiny purse in exchange for a rolled-up, fully prepped joint.
“You sure you don’t want something stronger?” he asks as I’m about to turn away. “I’ve got a few special treats tonight.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but my right temple feels like it’s getting drilled by an unlicensed dentist. “Like what?”
