Page 2 of Deception

Standing, I shrug my shoulders so that my suit jacket adjusts. It’s new from my father’s favourite tailor on Saville Row—the same one that clothes the royal princes. As I button the jacket with one hand, I finish the last of the vodka in my glass—Russia’s finest from our very own distillery. It marries our caviar perfectly.

“Let’s see how well your weapon performs.” There’s a flit of worry as I put my glass down on the table and squeeze his shoulder hard enough that he stiffens. “I like a fighter.”

“Ne yebat’ tovar,” Father quips with a flare of his nose. The look he’s levelling me with makes his order explicit.Don’t fuck the goods.

“Poprobuyte pered pokupkoy…”Try before you buy; that’s what he’s always taught me.

Not about the girls. Not usually, anyway. Except this one…

This girl is a weapon. She’s the answer to our problems with the powers that be in this country. There hasn’t been a time when their little brotherhood has let us in. Everywhere else, there’s always been a weak link.

Not here.

Not until now.

So, for every block they put in front of us, we take something they value. Their losses dwarf ours, and eventually, they will play by our rules. In our world, politics is nothing but a game for weaklings—rules binding power. What keeps them grounded is also burying them, eventually.

Rules. We have none. I have none because I am the exception.

“Tomasz.” My father’s growl is curt and sharp, taking on that chastising tone from my childhood.

Except, I’m not a child anymore. And as much as he is the boss right now, it is me who will take over and continue his legacy. That alone gives me power because I am my father’s only son. The only Vassily left to carry the family name and wear the crown.

I nod at him, an acknowledgement of his warning. However, it doesn’t stop me from sauntering towards the girl at the bar. The lick of her lips tells me I’ve already hooked her, and as I pause beside her, leaning over the bar top, she swivels on the stool to face the liquor-lined wall ahead of us. Slender hands flatten to the counter, red-painted fingernails drumming on the black marble.

“Two vodkas,” I ask the bartender in Russian.

While he pours the drinks, I glance down between the girl and me. The scent of summer flowers grows bolder the longer I stand here, admiring long legs that flex under my watchful gaze. Slender calves tighten around what I imagine being delicate bones. Breakable. Fragile. My thoughts reel at the idea of being the one to break her. She looks like she would fight back. Smells like it too, as I pick up one drink the bartender puts down and turn to face her side, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of her body seep through the fabric of my suit.

When her eyes flicker up to mine, I hold my drink up between us, nodding towards the other on the bar as I tell her, “Drink.”

A brow quirks as though she’s about to argue. Instead, the girl sits straighter, shoulders pulling back while she takes the drink with deliberate slowness. Eyes never leaving mine, she licks her lips and sniffs the vodka before taking a sip. Short and steady, barring the minute flutter of her lashes that disguises her wince at the burn of the liquor.

The princess has delicate taste buds.

Delicate taste. Delicate bones. Delicate flesh.

The rhythm of my heart picks up as the light flashes between red and blue, marling her skin with the ghost of future bruises.

I want her for myself.

I want to be the monster she cowers from. The one that destroys her delicate spirit like her father and his band of brothers have tried to destroy our family. I’ll be the one to obliterate her fight, no matter the orders my father gives. I want this one for myself. To taste her fear on my lips and tongue long after she’s gone from this earth.

Nothing will stop me from having her. As if the girl can hear my thoughts, and is as eager for her destruction as I am, she turns, red hair cascading over one shoulder when she looks up at me.

“You must have forgotten your manners back there,” she utters, the sound of her voice low.

No inflexion. Devoid of feeling even with the slight smirk that tugs at one side of her lips as her eyes side-glance to the table my father and the English traitor are still sitting at.

The music trills as the curtain to the stage opens, and the security steps in front of the doors. It’s a good night tonight. For her, at least. This would usually be an auction, and she would be up there waiting to meet her fate. However, today it’s a mere show.

This girl would make a good pet. Easy to look at and all that milky skin so pleasant to mark.

Tipping the single measure back, I finish my drink in one and stand back to appraise every inch of pale silk skin on display. It’s always the ones with breeding that are the most rewarding. And this girl isn’t only bred to elite refinement; she also has noble blood in her veins. Centuries of nobility and aristocracy weave through her DNA. The British prime minister’s daughter is a wet fucking dream.

“Finish,” I order, nodding at her drink.

With a purse of her lips, she narrows her gaze on me for a beat. The blue light makes her eyes brighter even in the obscurity of our surroundings. It’s vivid and full of life. A life that I want to wither in my bare hands.

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