Epilogue

EPILOGUE

MIKA

H eat crackles between us as the oxygen vanishes from the room. My skin feels suddenly hot and tight as Alfie’s eyes flick down to my lips, and for a moment, all I can think about is him kissing me. I jolt as Nina clears her throat, breaking the tension, and Alfie drops my chin, leaning back in his chair as he turns his attention back to his sister. Her lips twitch as she tries to suppress a smile, and her fingers flash as she says something that makes Alfie chuckle. Then she turns to give my hand a squeeze before standing.

“Nina says she’s going to bed before she sees something she can’t unsee,” Alfie explains. “But she’s so glad I found you. She says you’re good for me.”

Deep affection for Alfie’s sister floods my chest. She’s as charming as her brother, and so full of love and joy, it’s infectious. Standing, I pull her into a fierce hug, I step back so she can read my lips. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, and her eyes dance at my startled expression when she actually speaks.

It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice, and my heart squeezes at how sweet and soft and incredibly vulnerable it sounds. I glance at Alfie and find he looks just as stunned as I am. He stares silently at his sister, eyebrows raised, and lips parted as if lost for words. Warmth floods my body as I realize she must not speak to people often, and I’m moved by the display of trust. Beaming, I pull her in for one last hug, which she returns with warmth. Then, as Alfie stands, Nina leans in to give him a quick peck on the cheek before leaving the dining room.

I stand quietly for a moment, watching the door swing softly closed, and when I turn back to the table, I find Alfie watching me, his gaze igniting a fire deep in my belly.

“So.” He takes my hand, pulling me around the table until I’m standing in front of him, my hips leaning against the edge of the polished wood. “Where were we?”

My heart flutters, my palms finding his chest, my back arching as I meet his eyes, and his arms cinch around my waist. “I believe you were proposing to me—very romantically, I might add.”

Alfie smiles, his white teeth flashing against his olive skin, and his eyes flick down to my lips, making my heart skip a beat. “Marry me?” he murmurs, slowly leaning in to close the distance between our lips.

My heart breaks into a sprint as the question hits me like a moving train. I was already starting to wrap my mind around the idea of becoming Alfie’s wife—even if it feels like we’re diving into this relationship headfirst—but somehow, hearing him ask it like a question obliterates the last of my reservations. I have been fighting so hard to put up my defenses, to keep a distance between us so he couldn’t hurt me. I was terrified of giving my heart to another undeserving asshole who would crush it when he was done with me. But somewhere along the line, Alfie managed to get under my skin without me noticing. I started falling for him and didn’t realize it until it was too late. Despite my best efforts, I fell in love with Alfie in a way I never dreamed possible.

“Okay,” I whisper, my heart in my throat as our breaths mingle.

His strong arms tighten around me as he steals the last of the space between us, sealing our lips with a searing kiss. Tingling heat bursts through my core as his tongue strokes between my teeth, and I melt into him. It feels so right, so real, so good to kiss him. When I’m with him, all I want is more.

Alfie leans forward, pressing my hips more firmly against the table as he sweeps his arm across the surface, clearing it as he sends glass crashing to the floor. I gasp, my heart skipping a beat as I picture staff dashing into the dining room to see what happened—maybe clean up the mess. But Alfie doesn’t seem to care. Grasping my hips, he lifts me onto the table, setting me on the edge as he steps between my knees. His fingers find the hem of my dress and slip beneath it to grasp my thighs. Slowly, his hands travel up my legs, his grip strong and demanding.

Arousal floods my panties, soaking the thin silk until it’s clinging to my sensitive flesh. The thought that someone might walk in on us at any minute only heightens my excitement, and I’m shocked by the realization. I’m getting used to the way Alfie will fuck me wherever and whenever he likes, and I’m starting to see the appeal in the thrill of possibly getting caught. It makes his attention that much more intoxicating.

The soft fabric of my dress slides up my thighs, exposing my wet panties as Alfie reaches around to palm my ass. He pulls me forward until my hips meet his, and he grinds his stiff cock against my clit, dragging a moan from my throat. His fingers curl around the waist of my panties, pulling them down my hips, and I shift so he can remove them more easily. The soft fabric tickles along my thighs, falling to the ground as soon as it’s past my knees.

“Are we really doing this here?” I whisper, glancing toward the door as my stomach quivers with nervous excitement.

“I’m not finished with dessert,” he states, his tone raising goosebumps across the exposed flesh of my arms and back.

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, Alfie tosses it aside and swiftly removes his tie before unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. Then he kneels in front of me, his eyes holding mine, burning with intensity as he pushes my dress up around my waist. Hooking my knees over his shoulders, he grasps my hips and leans in to stroke his tongue between my folds. I gasp, leaning back to brace my palms against the table, my back arching as a burst of electric pleasure crackles up my spine. Tingling pleasure washes through my core as his tongue teases my throbbing entrance before sweeping up my slit to flick across my clit.

I cry out, unable to stay quiet and feeling surprisingly shameless about it. My hips roll as Alfie’s lips wrap around my sensitive bundle of nerves, and he sucks lightly. In seconds, I’m trembling with the pressure of my building release. My walls throb, my clit twitching every time his tongue twirls around it. Sharp breaths rush past my lips as waves of pleasure crash through my body, sending arousal flooding into my core. Fingers pressing into my bare thighs, Alfie keeps me pinned in place as he eats me out like I’m the sweetest treat he’s ever tasted. He alternates between running his tongue between my wet folds and sucking my clit between his teeth, and every time he mixes it up, that pressure builds inside me, a ball of tension about to snap. His teeth skim across my sensitive flesh, and as he lightly bites my clit, I scream, coming so hard my hips jerk forward against his mouth.

Hot relief rushes through my veins as I pulse and throb, my muscles quivering with the intensity of my release. I pant, my elbows buckling as I barely manage to keep myself upright, and I watch with blatant lust as Alfie leans back, his smile wicked as he wipes my glistening juices from his chin.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, lowering my legs back to the table before he stands.

Flushed with satisfaction and blushing, I follow his gaze, tipping my chin up as he plants a palm on either side of me and leans in to kiss me. I can taste the tang of my arousal on his lips, and a jolt of excitement heats my core.

“I might have to insist you wear dresses for dinner from now on,” he says against my lips.

“Tired of my jeans already?” I tease, though it boosts my confidence to know he likes this more feminine look, too.

“Not a chance,” he growls. “Your ass is so fucking sexy the way it fills out a pair of jeans. But I do like the convenience of a dress when I want to taste your sweet pussy.”

My walls clench, my clit throbbing at the dark desire in his voice. Capturing my lips in another demanding kiss, he strokes his tongue between my teeth, claiming my mouth. Snaking an arm around my waist, he straightens, pulling me off the table and back onto my feet as he holds me firmly against his body. I can feel how hard he is as his cock presses against my abdomen, and even though I just came, hot desire throbs in my core. Reaching for his buckle, I quickly undo it, opening his pants so I can slip my fingers beneath the elastic of his boxers and grasp his swollen tip.

Alfie groans, the pleasure-filled sound vibrating against my lips. Stomach trembling, I stroke his hard length and run my thumb over the silken head, spreading the pearl of precum over his skin. Grasping my hips, Alfie turns me roughly, bringing my ass back against him. I lean forward, pressing my palms against the table as his knee presses between my thighs, and he guides my legs apart.

Cool air rushes across my backside as Alfie flips the skirt of my dress up, exposing my ass. His strong hands roam over the bare flesh, the heat from his palms seeping into my skin. Then he lines up with my hot, wet entrance, and with one powerful thrust, he enters me from behind. I whimper, pressing my lips together as I ripple along his hard length, excitement flooding my veins.

“ Fuck, Mika , ” Alfie groans, leaning forward until his chest is pressed against my back, his body heat enveloping me as he reaches around to palm my breast over the soft blue fabric of my dress. Then, his hand slides up over my chest as his fingers wrap around my throat.

My heart stutters, my walls tightening around him at the possessive way he holds me.

“I love you, vitale ,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His free hand wraps around my waist, bunching the fabric of my dress until his fingers find my clit, and as he rocks inside me, his fingers flick the sensitive flesh .

But as good as it feels to have his hands all over me, his cock buried deep inside me, it’s his words that fill me with an overwhelming pleasure. “I love you too,” I breathe, shocked to realize just how true my confession is. A thrill ripples through my core, and I shiver as my senses come to life.

“ Fuck, ” Alfie groans, his cock twitching as he thrusts more adamantly into my depths.

I moan as intense excitement pulses through my body, releasing bursts of euphoria that zing up my spine. Rolling my hips, I grind back against him. His fingers tighten around my throat, the pressure intensifying my pleasure, and I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. The burning need in his hazel gaze steals my breath away, and when our lips meet, I nearly come from the electric jolt that passes between us. Alfie sucks my lower lips between his teeth, nipping it lightly, and I whimper as he deepens the kiss.

I’m going to come. I can feel how close I am, teetering precariously along the edge of the precipice as he possesses my body completely. When I’m wrapped in Alfie’s arms, it’s like the rest of the world just fades away. I don’t care if anyone hears us. I don’t even care if anyone sees us. I need him more than I need my next breath, and it’s staggering to realize that’s not going to change. What I feel for Alfie is so much stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced before.

He keeps up his brutal pace, sliding in and out of me again and again as his fingers tease my throbbing clit. A bead of sweat trickles down the nape of my neck, and I can smell the tangy scent of sex in the air.

Our breaths crash together as he breaks our kiss, his lips hovering close to mine. “Come for me, Mika,” he commands.

I seem to have lost my ability to disobey him—or any desire to—as my orgasm rips through me like a tidal wave as soon as he says it. Sealing our lips with a kiss, he swallows my cry of pleasure as my walls ripple along his cock. Alfie groans, the sound sending a jolt through my core, and as I milk his hard length, I feel him tense. His hips jerk forward, shoving mine against the table as his thrusts grow erratic. Then hot cum floods my channel as he chases my climax with his own. I whimper, my stomach fluttering at the insane pleasure of taking his cum inside me, and the ebbing pulse of my orgasm throbs back to life.

I’ve never come so hard or long, and the tingling relief that washes out to my fingers and toes makes my skin intensely sensitive. Alfie’s soft chest hair tickles my spine, his warm skin searing across my exposed back. My nipples strain against the coarse seam of my lace bra, hard enough to cut glass as they ache with excitement.

“You belong to me, vitale ,” Alfie rasps, his cock fucking his cum deeper inside my depths. “Your perfect pussy and gorgeous fucking ass are mine. I’m going to fill every one of your holes with my cum tonight—and every night from now on.”

I shudder violently against him, my breaths ragged as fresh arousal floods my channel, mingling with his release. Before Alfie, I never imagined having a man dominate me could be so exciting, but when he takes what he wants, it undoes me completely. I crave his possessive touch, ache for him to make me his and his alone, and hearing him say it sends a thrill racing up my spine. I’ve fought Alfie every step of the way, but now that I know where this road leads, I think he might just be the only man I could ever be happy with. The thought of marrying him actually excites me, and though we’ve only known each other for a short time, I think what we have might just last a lifetime.

Turning in Alfie’s arms, I curl my fingers around the collar of his shirt and peer up into his gorgeous face. “Take me to bed,” I murmur, and I pull him down to kiss him.

Alfie’s lips curl into a smile against mine. “So demanding,” he teases. “I might have to punish you if you keep talking to me like that.”

My heart flutters, my breath catching as his threat brings back the vivid memory of him bending me over my desk and spanking me with a crop. Heat floods my core, and I arch into him as I nip his full lower lip. “Do your worst,” I challenge, my pulse racing as a sharp spike of adrenaline floods my veins.

A low growl rumbles from Alfie’s throat, and he strokes his tongue between my lips as he kisses me fiercely. Lifting me off my feet, Alfie wraps my legs around his waist, and he carries me from the dining room, leaving all the evidence of our scandalous sex behind.

Fire races across my skin, making me shiver. I love the push and pull of our relationship. The thrill of challenging Alfie excites me, and at the same time, when he’s in complete control, it gives me permission to feel things I never knew I could feel—to enjoy my darkest desires with a freedom I wouldn’t know otherwise.

Alfie terrifies me, and when I’m with him, I’ve never felt more brave. I love what he brings out in me. I love the way he owns my body and yet sees the value of my mind. I love all the facets of his personality—the way he can be so damn cocky and yet incredibly perceptive and kind, how he takes what he wants but also gives so generously.

I love Alfie.

And I love that I’m his.

Thanks for reading!

My next standalone, Bloody Lace , follows the story of an ordinary heroine caught in an arranged marriage with a Bratva hero—and it’s packed with all your favorite tropes:

? Fake Marriage

? Surprise Pregnancy

? Only One Bed

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Now, keep reading for a sneak peek of Bloody Lace, or click here to have immediate access!

Bloody Lace

Chapter One

Evelyn

The bright Christmas lights twinkle on the snow outside as I hand-stitch the last of the seed pearls onto the gown that I designed especially for tonight, glancing up to check the clock on the wall to see what time it is. I need to be at my best friend Dahlia’s apartment in an hour, to start getting ready for her big night tonight, and I’m already coming in under the wire with this one. But I want it to be perfect. It meant a lot to me that she asked me to design her dress, and I can’t wait for her to see the finished product.

I hang the dress up, going over it once more for any loose threads or flaws, and then zip it into a black matte garment bag, the name of my shop emblazoned in curling gold script on the back. Pearls & Lace. My life’s dream in two words, years worth of fashion school and long nights, literal blood and sweat and tears culminating in this small building filled with silk and lace and velvet, mannequins and needles and pins, and clothing of every shape and size.

My boutique. It means everything to me, and the fact that I was able to make my best friend’s gown tonight is the cherry on top.

I shrug into my peacoat and yank a beanie down over my hair, ignoring the fact that it’s going to frizz on account of the wool. Dahlia will have some means of fixing that—she always does—and I can’t afford to be late. Not tonight.

Grabbing the other garment bag, the one containing my dress for the evening, I hurry out to the curb, snow crunching under my boots as I flag down a cab. I was so lost in my work that I forgot to call an Uber, and now I have to put my faith in the New York City taxi service. Which is a pretty big ask, on a Friday evening the week before Christmas.

I get lucky, though—luckier than I expected. One comes along within five minutes—empty, even—and I flag it down, carefully laying the garment bags over the seat before sliding in behind them. I give the driver Dahlia’s address, and then sit back, tugging off my leather gloves to text her that I’m on my way.

Evelyn: Got a cab. Be there in thirty minutes, hopefully. If there’s no traffic jams.

Dahlia: I’ll go ahead and start on my hair. We can’t be late!!!

Leaning my head back against the seat with a sigh, I watch the scenery pass as the driver weaves his way through traffic, the sound of car horns a cacophony in the background. But it’s part of living in the city, and I’ve long since gotten used to it. I don’t actually know what I would do in silence, now. Probably go nuts, without the constant background hum of traffic, passersby, and vendors.

This time of year is my favorite. The city is loud year-round, but there’s an added element of joy this time of year, a festive chaos that I thrive in. I love the lights and the music and the cold, the colors and the textures. Orders that come in for the holidays are my favorite, too, always so much more luxurious and tactile than any other time of year. There’s a richness to the season that I love, and I’m never happier than I am from the end of November through the very first part of the new year.

I check my watch as the driver pulls up in front of the pre-war building that Dahlia’s apartment is in, relieved to see that we got here faster than I expected. I hand him a tip and gently scoop up the garment bags, not bothering to put my gloves back on as I slide out into the frigid air and hurry to the front door.

Dahlia buzzes me up, and I find her in her shell-pink bathroom, her blonde hair done up in rollers, squinting into the mirror as she applies her false eyelashes. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaims as I walk in, her nose wrinkling as she sees my hat. “Evelyn, what have I told you about wearing beanies?— ”

“It’ll break the edges of my hair.” I yank the beanie off, ignoring the horror in Dahlia’s face when she sees the static. “It’s fine. I’m sure you have some magic product that will smooth it all over. Literally.”

“I do.” She opens a cabinet with one hand while poking the corner of her eyelash strip with the other, pulling out a silver bottle and setting it on the counter. “Curl your hair first. Then use this. It’ll put all that static right down.”

I hang up the garment bags, noting the open bottle of champagne and two flutes at one corner of Dahlia’s long bathroom counter. One flute is half-full, at her elbow, and the other is empty—presumably for me. I pour myself a glass, watching out of the corner of my eye as Dahlia applies her other eyelash.

“I’m so glad you’re going with me tonight,” Dahlia says as she glues it down, blinking rapidly. “Even if I had a significant other to go with, this is going to be so much more fun. And so much more special, to have you there. One of those memories that I’m going to keep forever.”

“I’m happy that you asked me to go. And that you asked me to make the dress, especially.” I unzip my garment bag, taking out the dress that I picked for myself. It’s much simpler than Dahlia’s—a slinky cranberry red velvet gown that goes to the floor, hugging my figure but without any frills or adornment. It has thin straps and a slit up one side, and I’ll accentuate it with accessories, but I didn’t want to show Dahlia up in any way. Her dress is the showstopper tonight, and I didn’t want anything to take away from that.

“Who else would I ask?” She flashes me a brilliant smile. “For a night like this, I wouldn’t want a dress from anyone else.”

She plugs in a curling iron for me—I’ve never gotten the hang of hot rollers—and we sip champagne and get ready together side by side. I know the limits of my capability with makeup, so I don’t bother with the fake eyelashes or the contour that Dahlia does, transforming her face into a sculpted work of art. Instead I just do the basics, showcasing the one thing I am really good at—an excellent cat eye. I swipe on a thick coat of mascara, add a deep red lipstick that matches my dress, and slip on a pair of nude heels before shaking out my curls and sweeping the candy-scented gloss that Dahlia gave me to handle the frizz through them.

Dahlia is just finishing up, too, brushing through her own thick blonde curls and adding the last touches on her nude lipstick before looking at the garment bag hanging on the wall. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see.”

I bite my lip, reaching for the zipper. I’m actually nervous—I put an immense amount of effort into every dress that I make, but this one is special.

Dahlia gasps when I take the gown out. It’s made of dark gold silk, meant to drape over her like an old Hollywood siren’s gown, but the front is an elaborate work of art. Tulle is draped and twisted over the sheer lace that makes up the front of the gown, hiding everything that shouldn’t be seen, sculpted in waves from one shoulder all the way down to the opposite hem. And underneath every curve of the sheer gold tulle, I handstitched tiny seed pearls that will catch the light when she moves, like froth on gold waves.

“This is insane, Evie,” she whispers, her eyes widening when she looks at the dress. “You know everyone on the museum board is over sixty, right? I’m going to give all those old men a heart attack.”

“They’ll go out happy.” I unzip the dress gently as Dahlia slides her robe off, holding it so that she can step into the dress. When it’s on, I arrange it so that it’s sitting perfectly on her slender frame, zipping up the side and fussing over the tulle to make sure it all lays just right.

“I look like I’m going onstage at an awards ceremony.”

“You are ,” I laugh, handing her the gold drop earrings that she picked to wear with the dress.

“I mean—like movie awards, or something.”

“You like it, right? It’s not too much?” I bite my lip, suddenly concerned. I’d gone all out, using the references Dahlia gave me, but now I’m second-guessing myself. We’re going to a museum, not the Oscars, and I’m suddenly worried that I overdid it .

“No,” Dahlia says firmly, turning and squeezing the sides of my face as she air-kisses right above my forehead. “It’s perfect. I just want to stare at it all night.”

“If you do that, we’re going to be late.” I slide my own earrings into my ears—a pair of onyx studs—and slip my lipstick into my red-beaded clutch. “Did you call the Uber?”

“Five minutes ago.” Dahlia tosses back the last of her champagne. “Let’s go.”

I have a vintage fur stole that I brought to wear over my dress, and Dahlia puts on a Burberry trench over hers, before we head out to the waiting car, heels clicking on the stairs as we go down. The elevator in Dahlia’s building is ancient, and if there’s one night that neither of us is willing to risk getting stuck in it, it’s tonight.

Traffic is thick getting to the Met, but I don’t mind. The city has come even more alive since I got to her apartment, the streets filled with last-minute shoppers, people going out to dinner and to events, showing family that’s in town around the city. I watch as the crowds drift by, wondering what’s going on with the individuals that I glimpse. If they’re excited, happy, sad, lonely—every one of them has a story, and I can’t help wondering what it might be. The city is so large, and so full of possibilities.

There’s a long line of cars curving around the outside of the Met, dropping off guests and attendees, and Dahlia motions to her door. “Let’s get out and walk,” she says. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Okay.” I don’t mind the cold, even if I’m not entirely dressed for it, and at the rate the line is moving, the gala will have already started by the time we get inside. I follow Dahlia out, stepping carefully along the icy sidewalk in my heels, one hand clutching the front of my stole as we go.

We’re almost to the stairs when my heel hits a slick patch of ice, and I feel myself go sideways, scrabbling for purchase with nothing to grab onto.

Shit, I’m going to go down. And ruin Dahlia’s night, because there’s no way I won’t be hurt ? —

A strong arm goes around me, pinning my arms briefly to my sides as I’m righted, and a wave of juniper and woods-scented cologne washes over me. I suck in a breath—both from shock and because it smells so damn good —and twist around, looking to see who my savior is.

The culprit is a tall man with dark blond hair expertly cut and swept away from his face, blue eyes sparkling mischievously at me as he relaxes his grip—though he doesn’t pull his arm away entirely. My gaze goes immediately to his suit—he’s wearing perfectly tailored, dark charcoal wool, with a dark green velvet vest under the jacket as a presumable nod to the season.

Stylish and handsome . And he smells delicious. My pulse kicks up a notch, fluttering in the hollow of my throat as he smiles.

“Are you alright? You almost took a tumble there.”

His accent is distinct—Russian—and it only adds to his charm, giving his otherwise sleek outward appearance a bit of an edge. When I look up at him, I see a hint of dark blond stubble on his jaw, which surprises me, too. Most men who dress like him, and come to events like these, are either clean-shaven or have meticulously manicured beards. It seems like a purposeful way to add a bit of rakishness to his appearance, especially when combined with the accent.

“Evelyn? Are you okay?” Dahlia’s worried voice comes from behind me, and I straighten quickly, ignoring my racing pulse as I realize that I’m now bracketed by two worried people.

“I’m fine,” I assure them both, turning back towards Dahlia. “We’re going to be late. Thank you?—”

“Dimitri,” the man offers, and I give him a smile.

“Dimitri. Thank you for catching me. But my friend is getting an award tonight, so you’re going to have to excuse us. I don’t want to be the reason she doesn’t get to have a drink before getting up on stage.”

The man—Dimitri—chuckles, letting go of me. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason for that, either. Maybe I’ll see you inside, Evelyn.”

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, his voice smoky and alluring, like he’s promising all sorts of things with just that one word. I take a step back, ignoring the way I instantly miss the heat of his palm against my spine, trying to shake off the feeling that this man gives me.

I haven’t had much time for dating in my life. I’ve been too focused on my dreams of the boutique to care much about a relationship, and it’s paid off. Men—as I’ve seen in spades from Dahlia’s dating life—are fickle. Unreliable. But my business was built with my own commitment and hard work, and it won’t abandon me. I haven’t regretted where I’ve spent my energy for a single moment.

And while I might not be all that experienced, I know enough to know that men like Dimitri are trouble.

“Maybe.” I flash him one more smile, before carefully picking my way around the ice to join Dahlia. “Thanks again.”

“Holy shit, he is gorgeous ,” Dahlia hisses as we pick up our pace, her arm looping around mine to try and hold me steady as we make our way to the steps of the Met. She has more experience walking in heels than I do—she wears them just about every day, whereas I wear whatever is the most comfortable for sewing and fittings—and I’m grateful for the support. “You should have gotten his number.”

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “That’s the kind of man who would sweet-talk me into bed, spend one night with me, and then never call me again.”

“But what a hell of a night it would be.” Dahlia sighs. “Did you hear his accent ?”

“It was right in my ear, so yes.”

Dahlia makes a pouting face at me as we breeze past the ushers, into the blissful warmth of the museum interior. “You have to break that dry spell eventually, Evie. And that man could drench your?—”

“ Dahlia !” I hiss.

She rolls her eyes playfully, shrugging off her trench and handing it to the coat check girl, along with my stole, and taking two tickets. “I’m just saying. What’s the harm? If you don’t want anything serious, then it doesn’t matter that he wouldn’t call you again. And one night with him would be enough to keep your garden watered for months , I bet.”

“I’m not good at casual. You know that.” I’ve tried it before. One- night-stands, two-night-stands, situationships that last a few weeks. Somehow, no matter how many times I remind myself from the start of why I don’t want it to be long term, I end up feeling like it’s my fault that it doesn’t work out. And it just bums me out. I don’t like being bummed out—so the obvious choice is to avoid that altogether.

“The only way to get better at something is practice.” Dahlia waves to a few of her coworkers as we head to the bar, where a uniformed man who already looks like he wants to be somewhere else is handing a glass of white wine to an octogenarian woman in a hideous blue velvet wrap dress. I wince at the way it drapes over her—I can think of a dozen ways off of the top of my head to fix the cut so that it would be far more flattering. Elderly doesn’t have to mean you lose your style . I’ve said it to so many clients, and they’ve all left happier than they were before. I’m itching to give her my business card and offer her a consult, but I promised Dahlia no business tonight. Tonight is all about her.

Dahlia orders us both a drink from the holiday menu—something called a ‘sugarplum spritz’ as I glance back towards the doors. I tell myself that I’m not looking for Dimitri, but the truth is that I’m trying to pick out that dark blond hair and green velvet vest among the crowd of attendees.

“Looking for your new boyfriend?” Dahlia teases, handing me a glass, and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Just taking in the scenery. They really went all out decorating, didn’t they?” The museum is strewn with garlands, ribbon and holly, festive centerpieces on each of the tables, with bright candlelight flickering. Off to one side of the lobby entrance is a huge tree, twinkling with lights.

“They always do. But especially tonight.” Dahlia gestures towards the tables. “Let’s go find our seat.”

A number of guests and Dahlia’s coworkers stop her and compliment her on her dress, and she passes them on to me every time, whispering to me that the ‘no business’ clause is suspended long enough for me to pass them business cards from my clutch—which I brought, just in case. Once at our table, our drinks are supplemented with champagne whisked from passing trays, and the first course of shrimp cocktail is served while the first of the night’s speakers come out on stage.

“I got a sneak peek at the menu,” Dahlia whispers as she grabs a piece of shrimp. “Dig in, it’s gonna be great.”

I fully intend to. While I love owning my own business, it means money is tight, especially living in New York—and unlike Dahlia, I don’t have rich parents to help supplement my expenses. I eat dollar ramen and canned spaghetti-os more often for dinner than I’d like to admit, and I’m more than happy to add several of the shrimp to my plate as the servers circulate with each of the starting plates.

The rest of the meal is equally delicious—winter salad with pears and gorgonzola, duck breast with orange glaze and sage-roasted potatoes, and creme brulee for dessert. As I snag another glass of champagne off of a passing tray, I see a head of dark blond hair several tables away, and freeze as the man turns towards me, reaching for his own glass of champagne.

It’s Dimitri. His blue eyes catch mine, as if he was looking for me, too, and he tips the glass in my direction, a smirk on his full mouth. A shiver runs down my spine, and I quickly look away, focusing on Dahlia, who is touching up her lipstick nervously as the awards ceremony begins.

She’s receiving an award for curatorial excellence tonight, a huge step forward in her career, and all thoughts of Dimitri flee my mind as she stands up and I help her make sure the dress is arranged just right. All of the eyes in the room are going to be on her as she goes up to the stage, and I want to make sure that it’s perfect.

And it is. Dahlia is practically glowing as she goes up on stage to accept her award, giving a short speech about how much the museum means to her and how thrilled she is to spend her career working with such amazing pieces of art. My heart feels light in my chest as I listen to her, my face hurting from the smile stretching across it from ear to ear.

“I can’t believe we’re both so lucky,” Dahlia whispers as she comes back to her chair, squeezing my shoulder, her smile matching mine. “ We’re both getting to live out our dream careers. In New York. This is the perfect end to the year.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand as she sits down. She’s right, and I can’t help but think that next year is shaping up to be even better.

“Let’s dance,” Dahlia says, as the music picks up and the guests start to move from their tables out to the dance floor in front of the stage. “Maybe I’ll meet some sexy art collector who wants to hear all about my work.”

It’s anyone’s guess if he’s an art collector, but a handsome dark-haired man who looks to be about our age sweeps Dahlia away from me not long after we step onto the dance floor. She gives me an apologetic look, and I shrug, flashing her a thumbs-up. I’m just about to turn and head back to our table—and another glass of champagne—when a hand touches the small of my back.

I know it’s Dimitri before I even turn around. I can smell the juniper and woods of his cologne, and I turn towards him, looking up at his chiseled, handsome face.

“Come for another ‘thank you’ for catching me earlier?” I ask, determined not to let myself be overwhelmed by how attractive he is—or how alluring. I can feel that there’s chemistry between us, and it could be dangerous, if I allow it. My heart is fluttering just from how close he is, from his scent and the heat of his body, and anything that makes me feel this strongly about another person is something I should run from.

“Just here to make sure you have your footing. Plenty of tripping hazards on a dance floor like this.” His hand hasn’t shifted from the small of my back, splayed across the velvet of my dress like it belongs there, and although I know I should tell him to remove it, something stops me.

“Like what?” I ask tartly, as that hand presses more firmly, pulling me in for a dance. My hands settle on his shoulders automatically, feeling the soft wool of his jacket under my fingers, and I’m even more certain that this man is trouble .

“You might fall for me.” He spins me abruptly, pulling me back in, and my eyes go wide, my mouth dropping slightly open.

“That’s awful. A terrible pick-up line. I should leave you on this dance floor for that, right now.”

“But you’re not going to.” Confidence ripples through his voice as his fingers stroke along my spine, making warmth bloom through me.

Maybe Dahlia is right. Maybe one night with a man like this is just what I need. A little Christmas gift for being a good girl all year.

“I’ve been known to have poor judgement in men.”

“Perfect. I’m feeling better than ever about my chances.” He smiles down at me, and all I can think is that no man who looks this perfect can be anything but a bad idea. “You said you were here for your friend tonight. Do you work for the museum, too?”

I shake my head. “I design clothing. Dahlia’s dress tonight is one of mine.”

His eyes widen. “Stunning. You have real talent, Evelyn.”

Every time he says my name, in that ridiculous accent of his, shivers run down my spine. I swallow hard, resummoning my determination not to let this man get under my skin. But his appreciation for my designing skills is flattery that I’m ill-equipped to resist.

“What about you?” I ask, trying to quickly change the subject. “What do you do?”

For the first time, I see him hesitate. “You could say I’m in—upper management,” he says finally.

“Secretive. And suspicious, that you can’t just come out and tell me.”

“A little mystery is sexy, I hear.”

Not to me. In my experience, mystery means secrets, things that will come out and bite me later. I’d rather know who a person is, what they want, what I’m dealing with, up front. I don’t want to be surprised by who a person is, far off down the line. In fact, that caginess is exactly what I need to remind me that no matter how handsome Dimitri is, he’s someone I shouldn’t get involved with even for a night .

“You haven’t told me where you work,” he says. “Or what fashion house you design for.”

“You could find me, if I did.” I look up at his gorgeous blue eyes, a tiny flicker of regret flashing through me as I think of never seeing him again. But I know where my poor decision-making when it comes to men has gotten me in the past, and I’m determined not to go down that road. “And I think this is where our conversation ends, Dimitri. Thank you for helping me earlier, but it’s time we go our separate ways.”

The music is slowing, and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “I was going to ask for your number. I’d love to take you out. I know this time of year can be busy, but?—”

“No.” The word comes out more harshly than I mean for it to, but if I give him even an inch, I’m afraid I’ll give in altogether. I can still feel the heat of his hand against my spine as I step away, and I take a slow breath, reminding myself that chemistry is just that. A spark that is easily doused. “I’m afraid not. Good night, Mr.--”

“Yashkov. Dimitri Yashkov.” He smiles at me, but there’s a hint of sadness to it now, too. “Evelyn?—”

“Good night,” I blurt out again, spinning on my heel, half afraid that it’ll fly off in my hurry and I’ll leave it behind like Cinderella, a way for Dimtri Yashkov to find me after tonight. But both of my shoes stay on my feet, and when I make it back to my table, my heart hammering, I no longer see him on the dance floor.

And as far as I know, I’ll never see him again.

Chapter Two

Evelyn

One year later

I check my watch surreptitiously as the woman sitting on the other side of the oval table between us fills out a check. I can’t remember ever having actually written a paper check in my life, but the woman who just approved the last stage of her dress fitting is seventy if she’s a day, so I expected it. She’s one of the clients I picked up from the Christmas party at the Met last year, and I’ve been more than happy with her business. Tonight, we finalized a New Year’s dress for her, which happens to be her fiftieth wedding anniversary, and she was thrilled with it in every aspect.

But, much like last year, I have a party to get to tonight. And, while it’s nowhere near as prestigious as Dahlia’s award’s gala last year, I don’t want to be late to this one, either.

The bell above my door rings, and I wince. I thought I’d locked up—Angela is my last client of the night—but I must have forgotten, or not turned it all the way. The lock has started sticking, and I’ve been so busy that I keep forgetting to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, getting up. “I’ll be right back. Someone just came in, and I should be closed for the night.”

“No worries, dear. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

The small parlor-style room we were sitting in is just off of the main space of my shop—which isn’t all that large. I see the person—the man —who walked in immediately, and stop in my tracks, frowning.

He doesn’t look at all like the sort of client who usually comes in. He’s wearing loose black cargo pants, a tight long-sleeved shirt with a slim-cut leather vest over it, with fingerless gloves and heavy combat boots, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. As he shifts, I think I see a bulge at his back, and my heartbeat speeds up just a little. I don’t run in the sort of circles where I see people carrying guns, but I have a suspicion that’s what that is.

“Hi—I’m sorry, but I don’t carry or design men’s clothing,” I call out, as politely as I can. “If you’re here to ask about a commission for someone else, I can give you my card, but you’ll need to come back in the?—”

“I’m not here for a commission.” His voice is gravelly, as if he smokes, too old for his face, which I see now looks to be the face of a man in his late twenties at best. My age, but he carries himself as if he’s much older, too, a threatening tilt to his posture that puts me on edge .

“What can I help you with, then? I’m afraid I’m actually closed, the door should have been?—”

He chuckles. “Locks don’t mean much to me, lady. I’m here for business.”

“I’m not sure what sort of business?—”

“Money.” The man steps closer, close enough for me to see his features in the low light, which frightens me. All of my internal alarms are going off, and I don’t think a man like this wants me to see his face unless he intends for me to do exactly as he’s asking.

“I don’t keep money here. Not more than incidental cash. No matter what you threaten me with, that’s the truth?—”

“I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to offer you protection.”

I frown, more confused than ever. “Protection from what? I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—” I start to say business with a client, but I don’t actually want this man to know that there’s someone in the other room if I can help it. I’m hoping with everything in me that her hearing is bad enough that she’s not picking up on this conversation. “Closing up,” I finish lamely, and he smirks at me.

“This will only take as long as you make it take, Evelyn .”

The fact that he knows my name sends a shudder through me. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘protection’,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I need you to leave, or I’m calling the police.” My phone is in my back pocket, and I set one hand on my hip, inching my fingers back to press the side button rapidly if need be.

“You don’t want to do that. They can’t help you, Evelyn. But we can.”

“I don’t need help.” That comes out a little more assured, since I truly don’t know what this man is talking about. “I’m fine. And I’m going to be late for an event, so I need you to?—”

“This is a nice place you’ve got here.” He makes a show of looking around, and my chest tightens. “Unfortunately, it’s in Bratva territory. Yashkov territory. They’re dangerous, Evelyn. Very dangerous. Cruel, brutal men, especially when it comes to pretty young women like you. You need protection from them. So you pay us, and we make sure that they don’t interfere with you.”

Yashkov. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe I heard it in a movie? Maybe it’s a common Russian surname.

“I don’t know much about the Bratva,” I tell the man in front of me, still struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I haven’t had any trouble with them so far. I don’t think that will change. Thanks for the offer, but?—”

“You don’t know that you haven’t had trouble with them.”

“I haven’t had any trouble for as long as I’ve had this shop.” My finger inches backwards, pressed against the side of my phone. “So I appreciate your concern, but I really need you to go. Or?—”

“You’ll call the police. I see what you’re doing right there.” He nods to where my hand is brushing against my phone. “I’m not stupid, Evelyn. And you don’t want to make enemies of us. Not when we’re just trying to help you.”

“ Who are you, anyway?” I snap, as quietly as I can manage. Any minute now, Angela is going to come out and ask me what’s taking so long. And I want this man gone before she does.

“Crows.” He taps a small patch on his vest, just over his chest. I hadn’t noticed it, but now I see that there’s an embroidered crow flying under a gold arch, with letters embroidered around it. I assume that has something to do with his standing in this—gang, but I don’t really care about that. What I care about is that he leaves my shop. “We don’t like the hold the Yashkov Bratva has here. And we aim to do something about it. We’ll make sure you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“And if I say no?”

The man smirks. “Well, I guess if you’re not with us, you’re against us. Guess you’re taking the side of the Bratva, then.”

Anger flares in my chest. “I’m not taking any sides ,” I snap at him. “None of this has anything to do with me. I don’t even know if I believe you. Mobs, gangs—this is just a clothing boutique, and I don’t want anything to do with all of this. So leave , please . Or I am going to call the police. The only reason I haven’t yet is that I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening here, giving a statement, instead of drinking with my friends at a Christmas party.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And I don’t think you want to deal with the cops, either. So just go. I’m not going to be extorted and I don’t want any part of…whatever this is.”

He chuckles. “You’re bold. I like that. Hang onto it, Evelyn. You’ll need it.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he’s already leaving, shoving open the door and letting in a burst of frigid air as he walks to a motorcycle parked near the curb, an all-black sportbike. I see the patch on the back of his vest as he goes—a larger version of the one on his chest, this time with a bloodied knife held in the crow’s beak.

The minute he’s gone, I go to the door, yanking the lock shut with shaking fingers. Angela still hasn’t emerged, and when I go back into the small consultation room, she’s sitting primly on the couch, her filled-out check sitting on the oval table.

“Is everything alright, dear? I thought I heard some conversation.”

“Absolutely fine,” I lie, grateful that her hearing aids clearly aren’t good enough to have picked up the conversation between myself and the Crow. “Just someone who came by the wrong store.”

I finish up with Angela, taking the check and writing down the last of her notes for the final alterations to her dress, and then escort her to the door. I walk her all the way to her driver waiting for her at the curb—I’m more than a little worried about her falling on the icy sidewalk—and then wrap my arms around myself against the chilly wind, looking around a bit nervously before heading back into the store to finish closing up.

Part of me knows that I should have called the cops anyway, and made a report. If that man, or any other member of his gang, comes back, it will help. It’ll establish a pattern of behavior, or something like that. But I wasn’t lying when I said that I didn’t want to spend my evening giving a statement to the police.

I have somewhere to be. My kind of party, one with all of my friends, music, and laughter. The kind of party that this time of year feels happier and more festive than any other. I don’t want to miss it while waiting in my empty shop for a couple of NYPD officers to eventually make their way around to take a report down.

If I see anyone with a black vest, or a black sportbike hanging around, I’ll call, I tell myself as I stash Angela’s check in my purse and give the shop another once-over, before collecting my keys and making very sure that the lock is secure this time. Maybe it was just some punk kid, playing a prank, I think as I start the walk back to my tiny studio apartment.

It’s five blocks, and it’s cold, but I don’t mind. The lights cheer me up, helping me shake the lingering feeling of unease left over from the Crow’s visit. The further I get from the shop and that uncomfortable moment, the more unreal it seems, fading back until I feel sure that it wasn’t as big of a deal as it felt at the time. Definitely some kid, getting off on scaring local business owners. Running a scam, maybe. I was right to stand my ground about it, I feel sure, and if I see any hint of him again, I definitely will call the police.

With that in mind, I head up to my tiny studio apartment. I hear my dog, Buttons, barking before I even open the door, and I no sooner step inside than I’m accosted by fifty pounds of energetic white fluff.

“Hey there, little guy,” I croon, running my hands through his fluffy fur as I drop my bag in the entryway and grab his harness. Buttons is anything but little, a marshmallow of three-year-old Samoyed, but I’ve called him that since he was a puppy that fit in my arms, and it’s stuck. “Let’s go walk, and then I’ve got a party to get to. I brought you something to keep you busy though, don’t worry.”

An hour later, Buttons is walked and fed, and happily chewing on a puzzle toy shaped like a Christmas tree and filled with treats. I’m in my party outfit—a dolman-sleeved forest green knit sweater with a fitted black leather skirt that has an asymmetrical leather ruffle at the hem, and a fringed and embroidered shawl, my hair thrown up in a pile of curls. I pull on my black velvet knee-high boots, ignoring how terrible they are for the weather, and as I do, a faint memory slips back into my mind.

You almost took a tumble, there .

I’d all but forgotten about the handsome Russian man who saved me from falling on the icy sidewalk last Christmas, at the Met party. I can’t quite remember his name—it’s somewhere in the fringes of my memory, but I remember the way his arm felt around me, and the distinct juniper and woods scent of his cologne. I still don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything better on a man.

Maybe Dahlia was right, I think ruefully as I get into a cab to head to her apartment, where the party is being thrown. Maybe I should have gone home with him that night. It would have ended like it always does, with him never calling me again, but maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing. Over the last year I’ve been on a handful of dates, none of them good, and none of them ending in more than a kiss goodnight. My ‘dry spell,’ as Dahlia called it, is well and truly a desert, and I’ve started to wonder if I’m ever going to meet someone that I want to go on a second date with, let alone fall passionately into bed with.

I don’t even really remember what that’s like. I’m not sure it’s something that I’ve ever had. Decent enough sex, yes, but passion ? Chemistry, sparks, a feeling of needing someone like food, or water, or air?

I definitely don’t know what that’s like.

The party is in full swing by the time Dahlia buzzes me up to her apartment. She’s wearing a shimmery gold babydoll dress, her blonde hair in thick, loose curls around her shoulders, a cranberry spritz in one hand as she opens the door. Inside, it smells of perfume and cologne and warm bodies, her apartment awash in soft light and her pink-and-white decorated Christmas tree taking up a third of her living room. Guests—some of whom are also my friends and some of whom are not—filter in and out of her kitchen, getting drinks and snacks off of the spread that I catch a glimpse of through the archway that leads into it.

“I thought you were going to be late,” Dahlia exclaims, taking my coat and giving me a hug. “I texted you.”

“Sorry,” I say apologetically, heading straight for the kitchen and a drink as she trails behind me. “I had to take care of Buttons, and I was held up leaving the store. Actually—kind of literally.” I tell her about the Crow as I ladle some of the sparkling punch into a crystal glass—Dahlia actually uses her good glassware for parties. I’d be terrified that someone would break it, but when I expressed that once, she shrugged and said if they did, she’d use her parents’ credit card to replace it.

Dahlia lives a bit of a charmed life. But the thing I love about her is that it’s never gone to her head. She’s sweet and thoughtful, always gets the tab if she wants to go out somewhere that she knows is out of my budget, and works as hard at her job as anyone else, even though she could quit tomorrow and be fine.

“Did you call the police?” Dahlia looks shocked as I take a sip of my drink, scooting around to the side of the long island where all of the food is laid out. I snag a particularly tempting-looking crostini with cream cheese and a curl of smoked salmon, and shake my head.

“No. I would’ve been at the shop for hours. You know they wouldn’t have prioritized that, I’d have been waiting for ages for someone to be bored enough to come by. And then I would have had to give them the statement. I would have missed most of the party. And you know how busy I’ve been. I didn’t want to miss this.”

Dahlia’s mouth twists as she nods. It’s been a good year for me at the boutique, but with that has come necessarily having to turn down a lot of things I normally do. Our weekend nights out have ground to a halt, especially as orders started coming in for the holidays, and even though Dahlia has never made me feel badly about it, I know she misses the time we usually spend together. For the last couple of months, I’ve been so busy that she started going over to my apartment after she got off of work, just to walk Buttons for me.

“I get it,” she says sympathetically. “But you probably should have called them, Evie. That guy sounds dangerous.”

“Or he was just pulling a prank. Trying to scam me. Since I stood my ground, he’ll move on to his next target.”

“I think that sounds like wishful thinking.” Dahlia bites her lip. “My father has to deal with things like that, sometimes. People will try to extort him. Blackmail him?— ”

“Your dad is in politics,” I point out. “I run a tiny bespoke clothing boutique. It’s not really the same thing at all.”

“What he’s talking about is real, though,” she insists. “Mafia, Bratva—those kinds of organizations exist. Some of the people my father deals with even take money from them. Some of them are even in politics. That man could have been telling the truth.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe they exist, just that they wouldn’t bother with me.” I shake my head. “In the grand scheme of things going on in this city, I’m nothing. A speck?—”

“You’re not nothing.” Dahlia comes around the island, squeezing me around my waist as I pop another crostini into my mouth. “One day, your designs are going to be famous . Now,” she adds, plucking my almost-empty glass out of my hand. “Let’s get another drink in you, and get you out to the party. There’s this guy I really think you should meet?—”

Two hours later, I’m thoroughly buzzed and dancing to an upbeat pop remix of All I Want For Christmas with the man Dahlia wanted me to meet, whose name I’ve already forgotten. He’s shouting into my ear over the music about hedge fund management, and I’m grateful when I feel my cell phone buzz in the pocket of my skirt.

“I’ll be back!” I call out over the music, and retreat down the hall towards Dahlia’s bathroom. The number is one I don’t recognize, and I see that they’ve already called me twice. I must not have noticed it buzzing, too preoccupied with how to nicely let down the finance guy Dahlia introduced me to.

“Hello?” I close the door behind me as I answer the phone. I think I hear shouting in the background of whoever is calling, and I frown, leaning back against the door. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Ashburn?”

“That’s me?” I frown. “I?—”

“This is Officer Perry, with the NYPD. You own the Pearls and Lace boutique?”

“I do—” My stomach tightens, thinking of my visitor earlier. “Has something happened? ”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. I need you to come down here and meet us immediately.”

“What is it?” Cold prickles over my skin, and my buzz feels as if it clears in an instant. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, a sense of dread washing over me. “What’s happened?”

“Ms. Ashburn…” There’s a pause, as if he’s gearing himself up to deliver bad news, and I swallow hard, waiting for him to finish.

“It looks as if someone has set fire to your business.”

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