I wasn’t. Not really. But it was easier than correcting him.
We sat at one of the side booths. Dark leather. Bottle service. The kind of place where people made deals with devils and pretended not to notice the blood on the walls.
“Your father’s not going to like you sneaking out,” Yuri said, pouring me a drink.
“He doesn’t like when I breathe. Nothing new.”
My father built our house like a prison—but he forgot I’d grown up inside it. I knew which cameras were dummies. Which guards could be distracted with a bribe or a favor.
He slid closer. His hand found my thigh.
“Maybe you just need someone else to remind you you’re still wanted.”
I didn’t pull away fast enough.
Because right then, I felt it.
A shift in the air.
Like a predator had entered the room.
I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was, Misha Petrov, standing near the far side of the bar, half-shadowed, expression unreadable.
How the hell was he here?
I’d left him in the study not even thirty minutes ago—but maybe that was the point. He’d let me see him. Let me think I was alone. But Misha Petrov didn’t follow. He waited. And he was always one step ahead.
He didn’t move toward me. Didn’t speak.
But he was watching.
Not Yuri.
Me.
Yuri was still talking, still touching. His hand rose to my shoulder. His mouth too close to my ear.
“You don’t have to keep playing the obedient daughter,” he whispered. “Your sister’s the bride, not you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
I didn’t answer.
Because that’s when someone else slid into the booth beside me.
Not Yuri. Not a friend.
A man with sharp cheekbones, silver rings on every finger, and a serpent tattoo curling from his neck to his jaw.
Bratva.
One of Misha’s.
“You’ve got balls, coming here after what you pulled,” he said, too casually.
I raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”
