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“Please, make yourself at home. He’ll be right with you. May I get you a cup of coffee? Water?”
“I — water would be great, thank you.” I’d kill for a hot cup of coffee, but I don’t need to add to my jitters. A shot of whiskey would be heaven.
I take the bottle of water gratefully and give her a smile. With shaking hands, I twist the top off and take a swig.
Heavy footsteps sound behind me. I nearly choke on my water.
“Mr. Romanov! The woman I called about is here, sir. Your brother is looking into the scheduling software now.”
Your brother. Of course.
I sit nervously on my seat, my fingers wrapped around my water bottle. I did my research before I came here. I know who he is, and what he looks like. His background.
Mikhail Romanov was a soldier who suffered PTSD after witnessing undisclosed “war crimes.” He was born in Russia and is skilled in combat. He’s ten years my senior and the eldest in his family.
But one thing you realize about reading details online? Nothing is what it seems.
For example, you can read a person’s height is 6’2”, but when a man who'sactually6'2" tall and 250 pounds of solid muscle enters the room? It's a completely different experience. You can read “covered in tattoos, Russian heritage, pierced ears, scarred upper cheek,” but you don't know how terrifying that looks when you see those details in person. And even the Dark Web was eerily absent of any pictures.
And nothing I read said…dangerously sexy.
Mikhail Romanov enters — no,prowls —into the room with a scowl I feel in my very bones.
It takes everything in me not to run.
CHAPTER FIVE
Aria
I’munprepared for the way he towers over both of us. For the piercing coldness of his gaze. For the heat that emanates from him as if he’s stepped straight out of the fiery depths of hell.
But worst of all? I’m unprepared for the way my body responds to his utterperfection.
Deep-set dark brown eyes beneath heavy brows. Golden, tanned skin, and dark brown hair tinged with flecks of gold. A square, clean-shaven jawline. All his features make him arrestingly masculine and undeniably attractive. He carries his large frame effortlessly, corded muscle and strength barely hidden under a crisp white shirt.
I tear my eyes away to prevent myself from gawking and realize my thoughts have come to a stuttering halt. I swallow and regain my composure just in the nick of time.
"Why the hell are you in my office?" Oh, God. That voice. Deep and dark and cold as ice, like a plunge into the unknown depths of a sea in winter.
Don’t run. Don’t run.
“We had a meeting, sir,” I bluff. “Cybersecurity.”
“I did not make an appointment with anyone about cybersecurity. We have a cybersecurity expert. And I wouldn't have made an appointment with someone likeyou.”
Great. Add male chauvinist asshole to that list. Or is the direct insult aiming at another one of my traits? Theprick.
I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. It won’t behoove me now at all. I have to play nice.
“You’re excused, Chantelle,” he says seconds before he clicks the door shut behind him.
Fuck.
“Cut the bullshit and stop lying to me about why you're here, and I might let you live.”
Wow, so we went straight there, didn't we.
This is my last chance for protection. I take a deep breath, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and determination.
