Page 11 of Owned By the Russian

Tossing his gauze into the trash, he strode to his closet and grabbed a new crisp white shirt. He hurried to button it, the movement tugging painfully at the tender skin along his neck.

He was in the foulest of moods when he entered the hall, which was a stark contrast to the warmth and life that buzzed around. He stepped inside, shoulders squared despite the throbbing pain radiating from his neck and ribs.

The crisp collar of his shirt pressed against the neck wound. It did a good job of concealing it from the public eye but did a poor job at cushioning it. He hissed quietly but ignored the discomfort.

Mikhail spotted him from across the room, his sharp eyes narrowing as he assessed him. Despite the wicked throbbing in Ilya’s body, he maintained his composure as he approached his cousin.

“You’re late,” Mikhail said, his tone a mix of irritation and curiosity. He knew something was wrong, but he wanted Ilya to tell him himself.

“Got held up,” Ilya muttered, keeping his voice steady as he grabbed a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. “Check the restaurant’s footage.”

“Mm,” Mikhail nodded. He signaled to his consigliere with a subtle flick of his wrist, and Ilya used that opportunity to leave.

He wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. Mikhail would sort it out like he always did.

Around Ilya, the warmth of family swirled—easy laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of home-cooked food. To anyone else, the smell would make them hungry. But his guts twisted with unease. Even the white wine in his mouth was tasteless.

It seemed like every light move he made caused his shirt to scrape against the wound. He clenched his teeth in annoyance, desperately trying to keep his cool.

In the mirrored walls of the hall, he caught a glimpse of himself—sharp suit, composed expression, and not a hint of the chaos he had left behind just an hour ago.

“Good,” he muttered to himself as he finished the contents of his glass. That was exactly what he was going for.

Despite the fire in his neck and the storm in his head, he managed small, polite smiles at every familiar face who greeted him. His midnight blue eyes searched the room for a familiar brunette.

He needed an effective distraction, and Valentina’s sharp remarks were enough to do the trick.

His eyes did a good job of finding her. She was just across the hall, smiling at something a woman half her height said to her. She looked like pure sin in a sheer black lace gown, every delicate pattern and hole teasing glimpses of her fair skin beneath.

If he was being honest, she looked like she was having a great time. Too bad he was about to ruin it for her. He was too selfish to let her go tonight, especially after the sudden run-in.

The smoky makeup she had around her eyes made her look even more seductive than ever, and they narrowed in on him as he approached her.

The lift of her chin already soothed the burn in his chest. He could almost physically feel his insides cooling the closer he got to her. He could taste a pleasantness in his mouth as hers prepared to fire an insult at him.

But she paused, her brows furrowing as she leaned close to him. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

She lifted a finger and lightly traced the cut in his neck. He stiffened immediately, his body going through two different kinds of reactions to her touch. The first was a rush of electricity that made the hair on his skin stand at attention. The second was an instinctive urge to stay as far away from her as possible.

He was surprised she could even notice the cut because he was sure as hell that no one could see it.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, already angling his body away from her. Maybe coming to her to improve his mood was a bad idea tonight.

But she was persistent. “That doesn’t look like nothing.” Her gaze locked on his neck and there was a softness to her voice that he had never heard before. “What happened, Ilya? Who did this?”

Ilya’s jaw clenched, his hand fisting at his sides as he fought to keep his face neutral. Her voice was a calm to the storm brewing in his head, but it grated on him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He had grown up the hard way. Everything he learned, he learned brutal and rough. His brothers didn’t coddle him either, and most people outside his family only cared for him when they needed tousehim.

Genuine concern was foreign to him—especially concern directed at him.

“It’s none of your business,” he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

The brunette straightened, surprised but undeterred. “If someone hurt you—”

“Will you just fucking drop it?” he cut her off, his voice cold as ice. He had set fire to the moment between them. It didn’t matter now that he was pouring gasoline. “Don’t piss me off by acting like you care. Isn’t this what you people do? Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, not minding your own fucking business?”

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