Page 64 of Crimson Sin
“Well, well,” Viktor murmurs, his voice smooth as glass. “Running only makes the hunt more thrilling.”
I force my voice to be steady even though my insides quake. “What do you want, Viktor?”
The question comes out stronger than I feel, which is a small victory. My hands clench into fists at my sides, fingernailsdigging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. The pain helps me focus, pushing down the panic that threatens to consume rational thought.
He closes the distance slowly, his hands in his pockets as if this is nothing more than a casual stroll. Each step is designed to intimidate without appearing threatening to any potential witnesses. But there are no witnesses here.
“You know what I want. What I have always wanted.” His smile deepens, revealing teeth that are too white, too perfect. They remind me of a shark's smile, beautiful and deadly. “But now it seems fate has handed me a gift I did not expect.”
There's something in his eyes that goes beyond greed or rivalry. Every muscle in my body tenses. “Stay away from me.”
The warning lacks the authority I wish it possessed. I'm unarmed, alone, and trapped in an alley with a man who has killed people. But I refuse to cower and give him the satisfaction of seeing my terror.
He tilts his head, amused by my resistance. The gesture is almost boyish. “You're carrying his heir.” His words are soft and intimate, like a lover's confession. “That changes everything.”
The blood drains from my face so quickly that I feel dizzy. The world tilts slightly, and I have to put a hand against the brick wall to steady myself. How does he know? The secret I haven't even had the courage to tell Daniil now rolls off Viktor's tongue as if it were common knowledge. The pregnancy test was wrapped in toilet tissue and shoved into the bottom of the bathroom waste basket. I haven't made a doctor's appointment. I haven't bought prenatal vitamins or baby books or done any of the things expectant mothers are supposed to do.
Panic surges, clawing up my throat. I stumble back a step, but he only advances, cornering me against the brick. The wall is cold through my sweatshirt, and I can feel the rough texture of mortar against my shoulders. Viktor's presence looms over me, his cologne mixing with the scents of garbage and decay that permeate the alley.
“How...” I whisper.
“How do I know?” Viktor's smile turns predatory. “I make it my business to know everything about my cousin’s weaknesses.”
His eyes drop to my still-flat stomach, and I instinctively wrap my arms around my midsection. The gesture is protective and futile at the same time. There's nowhere to run.
“Daniil doesn't know yet, does he?” Viktor continues, clearly enjoying my distress. “Poormudakhas no idea he's about to become a father. No idea that his precious little princess is carrying the next generation of Zorin blood.”
The way he uses the word “blood” makes it sound like a curse rather than a blessing. In this world, maybe it is. Children born into the Bratva inherit violence along with their eye color and family name. They learn to count money before they learn to count to ten. They understand loyalty and betrayal before they understand love.
Before I can scream, another sound slices through the night. The roar of an engine, powerful and aggressive. Another SUV barrels into the alley, tires screeching as it skids to a halt, barely avoiding a collision with Viktor's vehicle. The sound echoes off the walls like thunder, and the smell of burning rubber fills the air.
The sudden chaos stills Viktor, but only for a second. His hand moves inside his jacket, fingers closing around what I assume is a weapon. His body language shifts from predatory to defensive, coiled and ready for violence.
The door of the second SUV opens with a soft click that sounds more ominous than Viktor's dramatic entrance. A man steps out, and immediately, I understand that whatever danger Viktor represents, this new arrival is infinitely worse.
He is tall, lean, and dressed in a suit that gleams beneath the streetlight. The fabric is so dark that it absorbs light rather than reflects it. The cut is European, sophisticated in a way that makes Viktor's expensive clothing look pedestrian. His ash-blond hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place despite the dramatic arrival. Sharp features look carved from marble, all angles and shadows that speak to aristocratic breeding.
A trimmed beard frames lips curved in a smile that doesn't touch his eyes. Those eyes are the most unsettling thing about him. Hazel-green and filled with empty amusement, as if everything he sees is part of some elaborate joke only he understands. They study me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
His shoes make no sound on the wet concrete, and his hands remain casually at his sides despite the obvious tension in the air. Everything about him radiates confidence and violence.
“Lucien Antonov,” Viktor hisses, his control cracking just enough to reveal fear.
The name means nothing to me, but Viktor's reaction tells me everything I need to know. In a world where men like Viktorinspire terror in ordinary people, someone who can make Viktor afraid is a force of nature. A hurricane in human form.
Lucien's gaze darts from me to Viktor, his tone smooth, his accent European with a French lilt that makes even simple words sound elegant and dangerous. “This woman belongs to you and Daniil?” His words drip with mockery, as if the entire situation amuses him.
I freeze, caught between two predators circling each other. The air crackles with violence barely held in check, and I press myself harder against the brick wall, trying to become invisible. My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised neither of the men can hear it.
Lucien's eyes return to me, and I feel naked. He takes in my appearance with the same attention someone might pay to a racehorse before placing a bet. When his gaze lingers on my stomach, I realize he knows about the pregnancy, too. Somehow, impossibly, my most guarded secret has become common knowledge among Chicago's criminal elite.
“The infamous Naomi Carter,” Lucien continues. “I must admit, I'm curious to see what all the fuss is about.”
Viktor shifts, positioning himself between Lucien and me. The gesture might seem protective if I didn't know better. “She belongs to the Zorin family. You have no claim here.”
“Claims are such tedious things,” Lucien replies, examining his manicured fingernails as if the conversation bores him. “I prefer to take what I want and let others sort out the paperwork later.”
The tension stretches between them like a wire about to snap, their hands hovering near concealed weapons. The SUVs idleominously, their engines providing a low rumble that vibrates through the alley walls.
