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THE DELICIOUS aroma of melting cheese and baking dough wafts out from the kitchen, a call to my empty stomach.
God, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.
Between the whirlwind of events and my gnawing nerves, food had been the last thing on my mind. Things were just crazy since last week. The events at the “Velvet Room,” the notorious strip joint where my best friend Wren worked, still lingered fresh in my mind.
The image of her bloody, bruised face is seared into my brain.
The ugly truth slams into me with the subtlety of a freight train – Wren is in the shitstorm, all thanks to yours truly. The raw bite of guilt chews me up from the inside out, an unrelenting reminder that I crafted this hellhole we’re in. Wren is caught in the crossfire, and my big bro is collateral damage. It’s my mess, my responsibility to shovel our way out.
Oh, Wren. I am so fucking sorry!
Suddenly, I’m yanked back to the now, standing in the kitchen doorway; the irresistible salty aroma is a freaking assault, playing a wicked game with my senses.
“Damn,” I curse quietly, my belly growling like a starving bear. I attempt to cover it with a cough, but it’s about as covert as a foghorn.
Stepping into the kitchen with Svetlana, I see three men. Three specimens of masculine perfection. Three men, each looking like they’ve been sculpted by the gods, then inked by the devil himself.
“Oh Lord, not now,” I murmur, trying to brush off the guttural grumblings that my stomach is cranking out.
Five sets of eyes hone in on me, but it’s Luka’s gaze that’s like a goddamn tractor beam. I’ve seen him. Hell, I’ve even fucked him, but each time I see him, he seems to grow more irresistible.
He looks at me, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips, and I swear he’s soaking in every moment. His gaze is a fucking inferno, intense and relentless.
I pivot to face him, my pulse throbbing in my ears. Backlit by the soft glow of the kitchen lights, he looks every inch the god. His form-fitting tee outlines his sculpted body perfectly, the fabric pulling taut over his impressive physique.
“Sophia!” Yulia’s high-pitched squeal ricochets me back to reality.
“Hey, Yulia.” I grin at her, my nerves momentarily forgotten. The spark in those blue eyes, the same crystalline shade as Luka’s, is enchanting. The uncanny resemblance between the siblings is striking, making the absence of any parental figures all the more conspicuous.
She’s beautiful, just like her brother, in an ethereal, could-be-painted-on-a-church-ceiling kind of way. As I study her, I can’t help but wonder about her parents. But the gloomy shadows lurking in Luka’s gaze whenever he looks at her make me think it’s a story for another day. And perhaps not a particularly happy one.
She’s perched on a stool, like a queen on her throne, wedged between Luka and Erik, their massive frames towering over her.
It’s an insane sight.
Caught between the two mountains, she holds her position on the stool. She’s the pint-sized queen in this den of beasts. I get the distinct feeling that her word is law.
“No, Erik! You need more bacon on the pizza,” Yulia argues, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Bacon makes everything better!”
Erik snorts, his arms canvasing a myriad of tattoos, his biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt. He rolls his eyes, huffing in response.
“Alright, little boss, but don’t you think we should add some more basil for extra flavor?”
Yulia scrunches up her nose, considering his suggestion. “Hmm, okay, but not too much! I still want to taste the bacon!”
“Zamechatel’no,” Erik praises, chuckling at her. “You’re a creative chef and a tough negotiator.”
The sight of it all, the clash of innocence and hardness, is enough to turn my mind into mush.
Then Luka’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Sophia, would you like to help Yulia with her pizza too?”
“I- I’d love…” Suddenly, my traitorous stomach decides to steal the show, rumbling like a damn Harley.
Oh God, what an entrance.
Chapter 25
