CHAPTER ONE
KONSTANTIN
The bass humsbeneath the floor, a steady pulse under the soft buzz of voices and clinking glasses. The air is thick with the scent of whiskey and temptation. My men blend into the shadows, scanning for threats, while I let my eyes wander over the room.
Some dance. Some drink. Some negotiate deals that they may regret in the morning.
And that’s when I see her: sitting alone at the bar, legs crossed, a black minidress hugging her curves like it was sewn on to her skin. Thigh-high boots draw my gaze to toned, tanned legs. And that hair—long, dark, silky—would find a perfect home around my wrist.
She radiates confidence with that perfect posture. Doesn’t even bother scanning the room like she wants to know who’s watching her, because she knows they all are. Confidence like that cannot be learned. She was born with it.
A queen surveying her kingdom, and I am in the mood to share.
My feet are moving before I realize it. Before I even decide if they should. Something about her pulls me in, gnaws at my instincts. Like I should already know her. Like it’s a sin that I don’t.
What a tempting little creature you are.
As I close the distance, the angles of her face sharpen under the low light: dark lashes framing unreadable eyes, full lips painted deep burgundy as she wraps them around the straw of her drink.
It’s easy to see she’s the kind of woman who doesn’t need anyone. The kind who makes men beg.
But I don’t beg. I take.
I move nearer, every step slow and calculated. She doesn’t look my way as she tilts her glass, the red liquid swirling in her hand.
When her dark eyes finally meet mine, there’s no hesitation. No shyness. Only quiet amusement, like she’s used to men falling all over themselves for her. And I have no doubt that is the case.
I slide onto the stool beside her, close enough to catch the faint scent of something warm and feminine. Vanilla and spice, perhaps.
“You always drink alone, or is this my lucky night?”
She smirks, lashes lowering as she takes a slow sip through the thin black straw. “I’m waiting for a friend, actually.”
“Lucky friend.”
Or maybe dead friend. It really depends on the level of friendship she’s referring to.
Her smirk deepens. “Really? Is that your best line?”
I chuckle, signaling the bartender. “If I was really trying to pick you up, malyshka, you’d know.”
She studies me, tipping her head slightly. “Would I, now?”
I lean in, forearm resting on the bar, mouth growing dangerously close to hers, and she doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t play games I can’t win,” I tell her as my palm lowers to the top of her bare thigh, warm and velvety.
It’s downright sinful how good she feels.
She exhales a soft laugh, the kind that doesn’t give anything away.
A woman like this? She enjoys the chase, but she doesn’t need it. Which only makes me more interested.
Her hand grazes my forearm, nails trailing over the sleeve of my dress shirt. “Neither do I.”
She has no idea what she’s just stepped into. No idea how risky it is to make a man like me want to learn everything there is to know about her.
The bartender sets my drink in front of me, and I lift it, watching her over the rim.
