Page 5 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because it’s… uncomfortable.”

“For who?” he asks. “I’m not uncomfortable. I called you beautiful, and you seemed to disagree. I want to know why.”

“Pretty.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

I swallow. “You said I was pretty, not beautiful.”

“My mistake,” he says coolly. “Beautiful. Final answer.”

My face is bright red now. I could hang over intersections and direct traffic. I’m flaming with embarrassment and nerves. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he inquires.

“No.” I shake my head. “Maybe… maybe ‘uncomfortable’ was the wrong word. You’re making me nervous.”

His mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Why?”

“As if you don’t know,” I snort.

That’s not an exaggeration—I do actually snort. Like a legit pig. I duck my face, but the man reaches forward to tilt my chin up with one callused finger.

“I want to hear you say it.”

I’m not sure if he actually doesn’t know or if he just wants to hear me say he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

“Well, for starters, you’re the beautiful one,” I say, gesturing to him with both hands like he’s the grand prize on a game show. “You’re quite handsome and clearly successful and very much in your element. Whereas I was just about to throw up in an airplane bathroom while a flight attendant beat on the door.”

“I’m sure that was an anomaly,” he suggests.

“Unfortunately, no.” I shake my head. “My life is… It’s a mess, to keep a long story short. So being around someone like you is a lot for me to handle. I’m worried I’m going to make a fool of myself. Even though I’m pretty sure I already have. And I still am. Like now. And now. And now.”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t made a fool of yourself.”

“Oh God, you're nice, too,” I groan. “You’re clearly only saying that to spare my feelings.”

“If you really feel like being down on yourself, I’ll give you one thing: you aren’t a very good judge of character.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he says, leaning in close. His breath smells like peppermint. “Because I am the farthest fucking thing from nice.”

The image of him barking something cruel in Russian into his phone rises up in my mind. I want to ask him what that was about. Maybe he’s having a bad day at work, too. Maybe we could bond over having shit-for-brain bosses.

But I doubt it.

Something tells me he’s the boss.

“You’ve been nice to me,” I counter lamely.

“Because you’re interesting,” he says. “You were right: I am successful. And I know I’m attractive.”

“Humble, too.”

“I don’t need to be. And neither do you.” He drags his fingers across my knuckles, and I clench my legs together. “I’m surrounded by people who know exactly how to act and always say the right thing. It’s boring. I much prefer a little… spontaneity.”

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