2

ANDREY

As far as decoys go, she's a damn good one.

Looks-wise, at least. She's a siren with seductive green eyes and dark hair that falls in voluminous waves down the open back of her very sexy, emerald green dress.

Of course, if we're taking into account skills, I'm not sure she meets the standards of Nikolai Rostov's usual go-to for fucking with my operation.

This girl has no skills to speak of.

She's clutching the walls of the elevator, nails digging into the brocaded padding as her chest rises and falls heavily. Either this is all part of the ruse—if in fact she is working for Nikolai—or she's genuinely claustrophobic.

"… ten to fifteen minutes," she mutters on repeat. "Ten to fifteen minutes… Ten to fifteen…"

I clear my throat loudly and she flinches, her eyes snapping to mine.

No, she's no decoy. Say what you want about Nikolai Rostov, but his ploys usually have a little more finesse.

Although, considering the call I received from my number-two, Shura, minutes ago—the whole reason I'm even in this elevator with this skittish little lastochka—I might need to reconsider that opinion.

Blyat', this wedding has been a disaster so far.

"H-how long do you think it's been?" she asks tentatively. The flush on her cheeks has traveled down to her chest.

"Thirty seconds, give or take."

A whoosh of terror escapes through her parted lips. For a moment, it sounds like she's about to hack up a hairball. "Th-thirty seconds…" She turns her back on me and claws the wall padding a little tighter. "Oh, God, I'm not gonna make it."

The silk of her dress hugs her ass to perfection. If I squint, I can just make out the subtle line of her panties pressing through the fabric.

"Counting down the minutes isn't going to help."

"What will help?" she demands. "And don't you dare tell me to stay calm. Don't tell me to breathe, either."

I suppress a smile as she whirls back around. "Pretend we're outside. Somewhere pleasant. A sunny, open-air café, maybe, and we're waiting for the barista to call out our orders."

"Open air," she echoes as her eyelashes flutter wildly. "Um, okay. I'm… I'm waiting for my order…"

"Describe it to me."

"Chocolate frappe with an extra shot of chocolate and whipped cream," she blurts immediately. "And cherries. Lots of cherries."

I grimace. "Jesus."

She smiles self-consciously, revealing a faint dimple in her cheek. "It's my comfort drink, okay? It's what I order any time I'm sad or nervous or freaked out."

"You're missing the point. It's sunny and breezy and nice. You're not freaking out. You're perfectly calm."

"Right. Calm." She gulps and her eyelids stop their frantic fluttering. For the first time since the elevator ground to a halt, she draws in something resembling a full breath. "My aunt had a cherry tree in the back of her house when I was growing up. We had cherry pies on Friday, cherry sundaes on Saturday, and plain ol' cherries on Sundays, ‘just the way God intended them.'" She blushes. "That's how my Aunt Annie would say it."

She's clutching the little gold locket around her neck so hard that the chain is embedding itself in the skin of her neck.

Then her eyes blink open and the tension comes roaring back. "Sorry. I'm rambling. We're at the café. It's nice, it's sunny, it tastes like cherries. What did you order?"

"Whiskey. Neat." Devil knows I deserve something strong after this clusterfuck of a day.

"What kind of café is this?" she laughs deliriously.

"My kind."

"Fair enough." She lowers her attention to picking at her fingernails. "How many minutes do you think we have now?"

"Thirteen, give or take."

"Fuck me!"

The moment the words leave her mouth, she goes bright pink. A gentleman would pretend as though she hadn't said anything.

Unfortunately for her, I've never been accused of being a gentleman.

"I'd consider it, but I'm not sure thirteen minutes will be anywhere near enough."

Her jaw drops.

The flush on her cheeks and chest continues to spread. Where would it go if I followed it? I wonder. If I peeled that dress apart and worked my way down the valley of her breasts, and lower, and lower…

Easy there, Andrey. You have a wedding to attend.

Not to mention the situation I was on my way to handle when this fucking elevator decided to hold us hostage.

She seems to be working up the courage to say something. I wait patiently.

"You'll have to find another wedding guest to proposition for sex. I'm not interested."

"I believe you were the one propositioning me," I remind her.

"I wasn't… That wasn't… You misunderstood…" When I chuckle low, her eyebrows pinch together. "Oh. You're teasing me."

"Rude of me, I suppose. Here you are in the throes of a panic attack and I'm screwing with you."

"I can't blame you. I know I make it easy."

I wonder what she means by that. Actually, I'm wondering a lot of things about this little lastochka. Like how someone as guileless as her could have ended up on my brother's wedding list. She could be a friend of Mila's, but I met enough of Mila's simpering friends today to confidently rule that out.

"Remind me: how do you know the bride and groom?"

She pales visibly. She looks as though that's the worst question I could have possibly asked her. Which of course means it's the right one to ask. "Uh… just a friend."

"A friend of Viktor's or Mila's?"

She swallows and shuffles from one stilettoed heel to the other. "Um, both."

"If I didn't know any better, lastochka—" She flinches when the Russian rolls off my tongue. "—I'd say you were lying to me."

She wipes her palms on the sides of her dress. "The thing is?—"

Before I can find out what ‘the thing' is, a resounding ring emanates from my jacket pocket. I pull out my phone to find my second-in-command's name on the display.

Cursing under my breath, I answer. "What is it, Shura?"

"Just got to the grounds. I'm standing in front of the intruder right now…" There's something hesitant in Shura's voice.

"Well? Is he one of Nikolai's?"

"He isn't talking—but yes, definitely one of Nikolai's."

I have to be careful how I phrase this, considering the second pair of ears in the elevator with me. "You'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to chat with us."

"Uh, right. The thing is—he's a child."

I make Shura repeat it to ensure I'm hearing correctly. I get the same answer the second time around. "How young are we talking?"

"Teenager?" he guesses. "He's about halfway to a mustache, if that paints a helpful picture for you."

This shit makes me sick to my stomach. What the fuck is Nikolai doing, sending in a boy to do a man's job? Then again, he's also the bastard who makes his fortune profiting off the sale of women and children.

Made his fortune that way, rather. Not anymore, though. Not since a few months ago, when I shut down his human trafficking business for good.

Which, incidentally, is what set off this campaign of retaliation against me.

I check the time on my watch. "I won't be able to get away for another couple of hours. Keep an eye on him until I get there."

I hang up to find my phone blowing up with texts from Viktor.

VIKTOR: What the fuck? Where are you? Ceremony's about to start!

VIKTOR: Bro—you're the fucking best man. Not to mention the goddamn pakhan. You need to be here.

VIKTOR: I can't believe you're not here after YOU forced me to marry the bitch.

Sometimes, I forget what an asshole my little brother can be. Luckily, I can always rely on him to remind me.

I ignore all his messages and turn my focus back on the quivering woman in the elevator with me. Good timing, too, because apparently, the two-minute call with Shura is all it took to completely unravel her.

She's back to being a sweaty, clammy mess, scraping at the wall padding like a cat going through withdrawals.

Real or fake? I still haven't fully made up my mind. This could be real. It could also be an attempt to distract me from the fact that she's obviously not supposed to be at this wedding at all.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Those green eyes of hers go wide and trembly. Then, without any warning, she collapses in a dead faint.

"Oh, fucking hell."

I drop to one knee beside her. I tap her face, but she doesn't so much as stir.

Her chest is heaving, though. Stuttering, almost, like the stitching in the dress where it binds across her chest is handcuffing her lungs.

It's pure survival instinct that moves me next.

Not lust. Definitely not lust.

No, I tell myself as I gather two fistfuls of the fabric. This is solely to help her breathe.

Then I rip her dress apart like tissue paper.

Her exposed skin is pale and cold to the touch. When I hover a palm over her mouth to feel her breathing, it's too still.

Only one way to go from here.

But it's not lust. It's definitely not lust.

I lower my face to the girl's. Her lips part as I get close, like she knows what's coming and she wants it.

Closer.

Closer.

Her scent is sweet and my dick has never been harder.

And then, just like that, I'm ripped back in time.

Because I've been here before. In exactly this situation, kneeling beside a cold, shivering woman and preparing to give her my breath.

I know how that ended. I feel the grief of it in the pit of my stomach every single day of my fucking life.

This kiss is to heal; that one was nothing more than a belated goodbye.

My lips seal to the girl's. I exhale to fill her lungs. Turn and feel her heartbeat. Exhale again. Check her pulse. I do it all one more time, and just when I'm wondering if I ought to be preparing last rites instead—why won't this fucking elevator move, goddammit?!—she makes a noise.

"Mmmm…"

It's a moan. There's no other word for it. It's a moan. Low and dreamy and undeniable.

And, like magic, it brings her back to life.

The emerald lastochka's eyes fly open and she shoves herself upright, just barely missing cracking her skull against mine. She scrambles backward to a hunched seat in the corner. "Oh my God." She slaps a hand over her mouth like she can shove the moan back in there. "W-what the hell…?"

Before I can explain, the elevator shudders into motion. Like it has a mind of its own, it takes us back to where we came from.

Ping. "Fifth floor."

The doors open onto the ballroom. I can see my brother standing amidst a throng of his useless, half-drunk friends. One of them spots me and claps Viktor on the back.

I feel a blur of motion at my side. In the second it takes me to signal to him that I'm coming, the little lastochka has darted out of the elevator, ducked between two security guards, and careened out of sight.

I let her go—for now.

My mind was made up as soon as I tasted her, so her quick getaway is just the nail in her coffin.

I've never met a mystery I couldn't solve.

And she's a mystery I'm determined to get to the bottom of.