Page 33 of Dance of Defiance
Same, lady. Fucking same.
And that sentiment hasnothingto do with whatever the fuck happened the other night in the woods.
Because I’m fuckingstraight.
“Miss?” A tall, handsome but surly man with an earpiece, wearing a dark suit and with his long hair pulled back, suddenly materializes beside Dasha. “You wanted me to alert you when your friend Ilana arrived?”
Dasha’s eyes light up, and I can feel her sourness abating as she turns to smile cordially at the man.
“Indeed. Thank you, Lev.”
“Right this way, miss.”
He gives me a perfunctory nod, then bows stiffly to Bogdan and my father before he escorts Dasha away, weaving through the crowded ballroom.
“Lev is my Dasha’s personal bodyguard,” Bogdan explains as he knocks back his drink. “Extremely loyal.”
He and my father start talking about “the good old days” in Moscow. I finish my drink, lift the empty glass to them by way of explanation, and then start threading my way through the crowd toward the bar.
“Having fun yet?”
I smirk, rolling my eyes and turning when I hear my sister’s voice.
“Loads, obviously,” I say dryly.
“Ooo, that was good,” she giggles. “I almost didn’t completelynotbelieve you that time. You’ve been practicing!”
I level a withering look at her but then allow myself to smile. “You look beautiful.”
She grins. “Whythank you, brother of mine.” She does a little twirl, letting her—of course—pink dress fan around her like—again, of course—a fairytale princess. “It’s not too much?”
“It’s perfect.”
She beams. “Thanks, Roman. You clean up pretty good yourself, you know.”
I lift a shoulder.
“What does yourfiancéethink about how handsome you look?” she giggles.
I glare at her. “You’re enjoying thisfartoo much for someone who’s going to be shoehorned into an arranged marriage withsome creepy mouth-breathing heir within the next two years, my friend.”
She makes a face. “Not happening.”
I laugh. “Sure.”
She sticks out her tongue and brings a flute of champagne to her lips. Before she can take a sip, I pluck it from her grasp.
“Hey!”
“What number is this?”
She sighs dramatically. “Seriously?”
“Evie, you get shitfaced on half a beer,” I grin.
“That’s only my second glass,” she huffs. “And I’ve barely touched it.”
“How about a little moderation.”
