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Startled, I jump back, and my left heel lands on the carpet the wrong way. I cry out, arms flailing as my ankle buckles painfully underneath me. Before I can fall on my ass, strong hands grab my elbows, stabilizing me, and I find myself looking up into the darkest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.
The man holding me is muscular and tall. So tall that even in my heels, I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze. And he’s young. Young enough to be called a boy. His height and the breadth of his shoulders fooled me initially, but he can’t be much older than my brother Nikolai, who’s just turned twenty.
I swallow hard as those dark, hooded eyes rake over my face, lingering for a moment on my bright red lips. My heart is pounding and my skin feels strangely warm, especially where his fingers grip my bare arms. I’ve never been so physically close to a male who’s unrelated to me, and while this man-boy is nowhere near as ridiculously handsome as my brothers, I can’t stop staring at his face, with its rugged, potently masculine features. There’s something wild about him, something untamed in the tousled black locks falling over his forehead and in the sharp, almost cruel lines of his jaw. Even his cologne, with its subtle notes of pine and leather, reminds me of dark winter forests and the dangers lurking within.
“You okay?” he asks softly. The deep timbre of his voice is that of a man, not a boy. “Did you hurt yourself?”
I manage a headshake, and he lets go of me. I immediately step back. My arms tingle where he held me, the cool air wafting over my skin forming a stark contrast to the heat of his touch.
He runs his gaze over me, the look in it distinctly male and adult. Strangely, I don’t mind. For the first time, I’m glad I look all of seventeen, maybe even eighteen. I wish I looked twenty. Pulling back my shoulders, I stand straighter, even as a trickle of nervous sweat runs down my spine underneath the tight bodice of the dress.
Does he like what he sees? Because I want him to. I want it badly.
His lips curl wickedly as his eyes return to my face. “What’s the matter, beauty? Cat got your tongue?”
Beauty? He does like what he sees! Then the meaning of his words filters into my brain, and I realize I’ve been staring at him in total silence, like an awestruck groupie. A hot flush scorches my face. “Of course not!”
His eyes narrow, the wicked smirk falling off his lips, and I want to crawl under the carpet. What a stupid, immature response. Worse yet, the words came out in a squeak, making me sound like a dumb kid instead of a young adult close to his age. Which is what I’ll be soon-ish. Like in four or five years.
Clearing my throat, I pitch my voice deeper. “What the hell are you doing up here?”
There. That sounded like a maybe-eighteen-year-old. One with attitude. I think older boys like that.
A speculative gleam appears in his eyes, mixing with a hint of amusement. “What areyoudoing up here?”
I scoff. “Nice try. That’s my room back there.” I jab my thumb toward my bedroom and channel Papa at his bossiest. “Now answer my question. What are you doing in my father’s office?”
His voice goes ice cold. “Your father’s?” A hard mask drops over his face, all hints of boyishness disappearing from his features. The man looking at me now is as dark and dangerous as any of my father’s enforcers. “You’reAlina? Molotov’s thirteen-year-old daughter?”
“I’m almost fourteen!” Dammit, that came out sounding like I’m all of ten. So much for convincing him I’m close to his age, whatever that is. Calling upon generations of Molotov arrogance, I ask as haughtily as I can manage, “How old areyou?”
In truth, I’m not sure I want to know anymore. Or to be anywhere near him. While the boy intrigued me, the man scares me. There’s derision in his dark, almost-black eyes as he stares at me now. Derision and something else… something frightening.
His voice turns lethally soft. “That’s none of your business, little girl. Run to your father and tell him his plan didn’t work. I’m not taking the bait, no matter how prettily packaged it may be.”
Bait? What is he—?
Then it dawns on me. He’s referring tome.
I’m the prettily packaged bait.
My face turns hot again, but this time with pure, undiluted anger. “Fuck you. I’m no bait.”
“Aren’t you?” He rakes his gaze over me, a cruel curve appearing on his lips. “Why else would they dangle you in front of me dressed like that?”
“Nobody’s dangling me!” I want to slap him. I want to claw his eyes out. Mama likes me to look pretty, true, but it’s a status thing for her and Papa. Like the caviar and the fancy cheese. My brothers have to dress up when we have company too; that’s just how we were raised. Fuming, I pointedly drag my gaze over him, from the top of his black hair to the shiny tips of his shoes. “Are they danglingyou?”
Because he’s dressed in evening attire also. I’m so used to seeing men in tuxes and suits that I didn’t register his clothes at first. But they’re nice, as fancy as anything my father and brothers wear. His black tuxedo jacket hugs his broad shoulders before tapering into his lean waist, and his pants fit his long, athletic legs perfectly. His shirt is a crisp, gleaming white, highlighting the olive hue of his skin and the stark black of his bowtie. And above it—wait, is that a tattoo peeking out of the starched collar of his shirt?
He gives a short, sharp bark of laughter, but there’s no amusement in the sound, nothing but that cruel derision. “Clever child, aren’t you? A Molotov in the truest sense of the word.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not a child.” Then I process the second part of his remark, and a peculiar suspicion sprouts within me. I narrow my eyes. “Who are you again?”
He gives me a mocking bow. “Alexei Leonov, at your service.”
And with that bombshell, he turns on his heel and heads toward the stairs as if he has every right to be here.
* * *
