Page 163 of Made for Sinners

I stared at her. “Nikolai.”

She nodded. “Yeah. He’s the nice one. The one screaming outside the door? That’s Aleksander. He’s the… not-nice one.”

My stomach dropped.

Romanov.

I was in the Romanov house.

The girl must’ve seen something shift in my face because she tilted her head. “You’re Emilia, right? Dante Conti’s wife?”

I didn’t answer.

She didn’t seem to need me to.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding to herself. “Alek really pissed Nik off by kidnapping you. Especially after everything he’s done to your husband. Nik’s been yelling at him for like… an hour.”

My legs gave out, and I sank onto the edge of the bed.

I was in the Romanov house.

And apparently, the only thing keeping me alive was a sibling rivalry.

Before I could ask anything else, a man’s voice shouted something in Russian from the hallway.

The girl turned toward the door. “In here!”

The door burst open.

A man stormed in, tall and broad and furious. He had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like a thunderstorm. He wore a black sweater and slacks, and he looked like he could kill someone with a single glance.

He looked at the girl. “Yelena, what the hell are you doing in here?”

She grinned. “Bringing tea.”

He barked something in Russian—sharp and scolding.

She rolled her eyes. “Relax. She’s not going to bite me.”

He muttered something else, then turned to me.

Yelena gave me a little wave. “Bye, Emilia. Don’t try to run. The dogs are faster.”

She skipped out of the room.

The man—Nikolai, I assumed—watched her go, then turned back to me his expression unreadable. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed felt like a held breath. He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, like he was waiting for me to say something first.

I didn’t. I was too busy trying to decide whether I should throw the teacup at his head or bolt for the window.

He exhaled through his nose. “Are you hurt?”

I blinked. “Besides being kidnapped?”

His jaw twitched. “That wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh, I figured,” I said, voice flat. “You seem like the type to prefer polite invitations over chloroform and needles.”

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t.

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