Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I strolled into the lounge, popping the collar of my tactical jacket. Head lowered, periphery narrowed, body tight and compact. Hands shoved deep into my pockets to make myself a touch smaller. Didn’t need anyone questioning the height discrepancy with Borya.
The hostess’s frown lingered on me. Must’ve had beef with Borya? Didn’t care.
Online gallery photos hadn’t done the place justice—gold railings, marble floors, chandeliers dripping with light. Pure opulence. The kind of place Natasha belonged. A place she thought she’d be safe.
I strolled into the elevator and rode it up.
On the roof, my focus snapped inward like a sniper scope. Natasha. At a sleek bar, framed by city lights. Her elbow propped, head tilted as if the air itself bent toward her. She leaned away from a pink slushy drink, lips glossed.
Still inside the elevator, I froze, watching her.
Between us sat too many MacKenzies. One of them beat me to the punch. Jamie’s little brother—the social media golden boy—swaggered toward her, shot glasses in hand.
My jaw clenched until it ached. That should be me.
The doors swept closed. I lifted a hand, triggering the sensors, and stepped out. Don’t trip, Enzo. You’re a trained operator.
Natasha swiveled in her barstool. That laugh, that tilt of her mouth—meant for the MacKenzie boy, not me. The resemblance to Jamie made my steps falter. She added the hottest Arabian sand to the wound by smiling at him. Like friends. Like she’d … answer when he called. Unlike with me.
I approached silently and slid onto the stool opposite her, removing a small vial from my pocket. Uncorked it with two fingers, hidden by a curtain of blond hair. Her elbow positioned between us, she spoke to the social media sensation on her other side. In one sweep, I scoped the scene. MacKenzies laughing, whiskey tumblers flashing. The brother—the knife-tat brother—already half-drunk, waving his glass. Great. He was my cover.
Her Russian detail? Lax. Three stared into the distance, two more lost in conversation. They didn’t deserve to protect her. Didn’t understand what she meant.
Two fingers, smooth as a card dealer, and the powder slid into her daiquiri, melting away in the frothy liquid.
Dropping her elbow from the bar ledge, which positioned her in Rory’s direction, she then clinked shot glasses with him. Tossed it back. She said, “Thanks, Rory, but this doesn’t mean you’re the cutest brother. Baby Jake always!”
Her voice hit me like a whip. Light. Carefree. Mine.
She turned forward in her seat, ignoring my presence, and sipped her drugged drink. When she stood, her balance shifted. She slurred the edges of her speech.
“I’m gonna get us more shots.” Rory walked backward. “A few more’ll make you provide an honest assessment.”
After a murmured agreement, she turned in my direction. A sloppy smile wrapped around the straw for another sip. “Borya, hey, you’re here.” Her laugh spilled out brittle. Confused. She poked my arm. “Are you here?”
Yes. I was here. Always. Only one who’d ever been.
She faltered. I rose, arms already out. She fell into me. Gravity and I were her universe. The weight of her. The smell of her. My chest cracked open. She belonged here.
My hands moved on their own—squeezing and caressing. Her perfume filled my lungs, burning a hole straight through reason. She was mine. My palms squeezed her ass.
Shouts broke.
Russian. English. Gaelic.
The illusion of our own world shattered.
I hooked her under my arm, ready to sling her over my shoulder. My chest thundered, adrenaline sharpening every sound into needles.
Then—impact. “Don’t touch her!” Lachlan’s voice sliced through the air, raw and commanding. His shoulder crashed into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. Natasha slipped from my grasp, crumpling to the ground.
Rage surged. I spun, driving my fist upward. Lachlan pivoted, and I struck his forearm. He swung a cross. My head snapped sideways, but I came back harder—Marine Raider grit in every move.
He slammed a knee toward my stomach. I blocked with an elbow. Countered a jab to his throat. The man staggered, but his eyes stayed locked on Natasha sprawled behind me as if to question why she hadn’t gotten up.
I swept a chair in his direction. Wood splintered as he caught it with an arm, swinging back with a haymaker that grazed my cheek. Pain flared hot. I snarled and drove forward, hooking his leg. We hit the ground, rolling, bodies colliding with tables, glasses shattering around us.
And then I glanced at the blur of bodies. Russian against Scot. I’d started a race war. A smile lit me through the bone.
“I’m gonna kill ye!” Lachlan’s fists converged on me. Fire in his eyes, he’d already claimed her. No. She was not his. She was mine.
I jammed my thumb toward his eyes. He caught my wrist mid-thrust, twisted hard, forcing me onto my back. His forearm crushed against my windpipe. The crush burned the edges of my eyes until I saw darkness. Not Lachlan. I imagined the moment Vassili took Mama, all because Papa needed to put the fight first. Every medicine capsule she owned clutched in her hand, her breathing labored. Then cops and a social worker.