Page 2 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
The alcohol was already making me bold in ways that terrified me. I could feel it in the loose way my hips moved as I walked, in the way I let my fingers trail along the back of the booth as I passed. Everything felt heightened, electric. Like I was walking through a world made of lightning, and I was begging to be struck.
The bar was crowded, men in expensive suits conducting business over glasses of vodka that probably cost more than my dress. I wedged myself into a gap between two conversations, close enough to the bartender to catch his attention but far enough from the other patrons to avoid getting drawn into their world.
“What can I get you?” The bartender was young, probably close to my age, with kind eyes and a nervous smile that said he knew exactly who I was.
“Champagne,” I said, then changed my mind. “Actually, vodka. Something good.”
He nodded and turned away to pour my drink, and I let myself relax for the first time all evening. Here, surrounded by strangers, I could pretend to be someone else. Someone who wasn’t Maxim Voronov’s little sister, who wasn’t wrapped in cotton wool and protected from everything interesting in life.
“That’s a dangerous choice for someone your age.”
The voice came from directly behind me, low and rough with just the hint of an accent that made my spine straighten. I knew who it was before I turned around, could feel the heat of him at my back like a physical presence.
“I’m twenty,” I said without turning. “I can handle vodka.”
“Can you?”
Lev moved to stand beside me at the bar, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that made me want to press my face to his throat and breathe him in. He was taller than I’d realized, tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Up close, he was even more devastating. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips curved in what might have been amusement or something more dangerous. His skin was pale,almost marble-white, with the kind of bone structure that belonged in museums.
“I can handle a lot of things,” I said, accepting the vodka from the bartender with fingers that barely shook.
“I’m sure you can.” His voice was silk and smoke, and when he smiled, it was all sharp edges. “But that doesn’t mean you should.”
I took a sip of the vodka, letting it burn down my throat before answering. “Are you going to lecture me about making smart choices? Because I should warn you, I’m not in the mood to be managed tonight.”
“Managed?” He laughed, and the sound did dangerous things to my pulse. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it? Maxim’s not here, so you’re stuck babysitting his little sister. Making sure she doesn’t drink too much or talk to the wrong people or do anything that might reflect badly on the family name.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of something that might have been surprise. Or approval.
“You think you know me,” he said.
“I know enough.” I turned to face him fully, emboldened by the vodka and the way his eyes tracked the movement. “You’re Lev Antonov. You work with my brother. You’re dangerous and you’re cold and you probably haven’t felt a genuine emotion since you were ten years old.”
The last part was a guess, but something in his face told me I’d hit closer to the mark than I’d intended.
“And what else do you know about me, Anya?”
Hearing my name in his voice was like being touched. It rolled off his tongue with a precision that made me want to hear him say it again, preferably while his hands were on my skin.
“I know you scare me,” I admitted, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “And I know I should stay away from you.”
“You should.” His voice was rough now, strained in a way that made something flutter low in my belly. “You absolutely should.”
“But I don’t want to.”
The confession hung in the air between us, loaded with all the things I couldn’t say. Like how I’d been watching him for months, stealing glances when I thought no one would notice. Like how he appeared in dreams I couldn’t control, doing things to me that made me wake up aching and ashamed.
Like how I’d worn this dress tonight, hoping he would look at me the way he was looking at me right now.
“Anya.” My name was a warning, but I was past caring about warnings.
“Dance with me.”
“No.”
