Page 71 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

BELLE

Nikolai escorts me through the rather understated front doors of the restaurant he chose, but the moment the doors open, I try to skid to a halt.

“I’m not ready,” I say, trying to backpedal out of the room.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re fine.”

“No, this place is ‘fine,’” I argue in a whisper. “Look around! It’s a wonderland and I’m wearing business casual. I’m not ready for this.”

That is an understatement. I never could have been ready forthis.

I feel like they’re going to charge me just for looking. The main dining area is a massive glass cube framed in black iron. The walls are Art Deco style mirrors designed to look like sun rays. At the far end of the room is a glass tree with glass lanterns hanging from the fragile branches, and in front of us is a crystal, life-size bear juggling mirrored globes. Every inch of the space is colored and reflective and dripping in details that make the design lover in me want to cry in joy.

But all I can muster is a dumb point-and-grunt at the nearest statue. “Bear.”

“Astute observation, Miss Dowan,” Nikolai drawls.

My eyes snap to him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s smiling easily at the hostess as she approaches.

“Good to see you, Mr. Zhukova,” she says. “I have your usual table ready.”

“Your usual table?” I bleat. “Youusuallycome here? How often is usual?”

He places a hand on the small of my back, leading me down a series of small steps into the sunken dining space. Red velvet booths line the walls and circular tables are arranged in a line in the center of the room.

The hostess directs us to a booth in the back corner. Just above the booth is a glass-enclosed shelf of Fabergé eggs and just below that is a shelf of intricately painted Russian nesting dolls.

I frown and turn to Nikolai. “This place is Russian.”

He arches a brow and looks at the hostess. “Nichto ne prokhodit mimo neye.”

Nothing gets past her,he said. The woman laughs at his joke and smiles a bit too warmly at him. But Nikolai’s eyes are on me.

I don’t like being the butt of their joke, but I can’t say anything without revealing I know exactly what he said, and this feels like one of those lies that there’s no coming back from. It’s either double down or die.

So I squash down the jealousy twisting inside of me and move to slide into the booth.

Just before I do, Nikolai grabs my hand and helps me down. “Thank you,” I say grudgingly.

The hostess leaves a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table and gives us a minute to peruse the menu.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“We’re having dinner. And they serve food here.”

“I don’t think anything is ever that simple with you,” I mutter.

“Eto potomu, chto ty nichego ne znayesh',” he sighs.

That’s because you know nothing.

He’s testing me. Trying to frustrate me into cracking. Why he’s playing these mind games with me, I have no idea. Honestly, I’m starting to think he just likes it.

“If you want to have a conversation with me, you’ll have to speak English.”

“What if I don’t want to have a conversation?”

“Then you’re a liar,” I snap. “I came here because you promised me answers.”

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