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But he’s already put more effort into the hunt than I expected. He didn’t get that bike in Croatia—he rode it here, or shipped it. He knew it would impress me. He knows how I feel about anything on wheels.
And not because I told him. He’s done his research.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
Adrik wants something. Not just my body—something else.
I look up at him.
He’s waiting and watching, his own steak untouched.
“What’s Moscow like?” I ask him.
“Well … you know when a thousand kinds of people poured into America, and it was chaotic and lawless, and fortunes could be made and lost in a day?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what it’s like. It’s the wild, wild East.”
I take a bite of the filet, licking the juice from my lips.
“That sounds … intriguing.”
Adrik grins back at me, his teeth white and strong. He has a wicked smile and a stare that makes you feel naked. There’s nothing sweet about him, nothing gentle. I could see him in a fur coat and boots in a Siberian castle, snow howling all around …
He was made for a harsher climate than this.
The leather jacket slung over the back of his chair is heavy and battered.
The body it revealed is tight, sleek, and flawlessly maintained. I admire when a man takes care of himself. I can tell a lot about Adrik from the way he treats his body and his bike.
He’s less tattooed than the average Bratva. Out of school for several years, I would have expected his arms and hands to already bear record of his accomplishments. One of the only tattoos I can see is a large patch on his right arm: the head of a black wolf, in wood-cut style. I’ve heard all his Wolfpack wear the brand, more reminiscent of a military group than Bratva.
Still, I suspect that if I could see Adrik without his shirt on, I’d find his shoulders stamped with the traditional stars of his organization.
I saw what Adrik was willing to do to save his uncle. He’s loyal.
There’s much to admire in Adrik Petrov. He’s calculated, intelligent. He doesn’t fail to notice things, he doesn’t guess wrong. That’s how you become a legend: consistency.
I’m almost intimidated.
And I’m sure as fuck attracted to him.
Every time he shifts in his seat, I catch a waft of his cologne, mixed with his own feral scent. It makes my stomach clench up in a knot.
I’ve never felt this kind of arousal toward a man.
Men are inherently flawed. They have so many weaknesses—overcome by ruthlessness and brute power.
There are exceptions. My father is an exception. My brother, my cousins. You’d think with all these good examples, I’d have a positive view of men. But I’m talking about the mass of men, the balance of them. It’s a simple equation: men have the power. If men were good, the world would be good.
“What’s running around in that head?” Adrik asks me.
He’s examining me like one of those puzzles you have to turn over and over to find the right angle of attack.
“I was wondering if you wanted dessert.”
“I don’t eat sweets.”
