Page 73 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

"Is that why you followed me into that bathroom?" I ask. "Because you know everything? Did you look at me and think,’'That woman is desperate enough to fuck a stranger in a plane’? That's probably the main way you score, right?"

"You did look desperate," he remarks.

“Screw you,” I retort.

He laughs and continues. “Desperate for a little fun. Desperate for a moment’s respite from the storm in your head. Desperate for a breath you couldn’t catch, no matter how hard you tried."

True on all accounts—shockingly true—though I'll never admit it.

“And you thought you could help?” I say instead.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“I thought I was the one asking questions.”

Nikolai considers it for a moment and then shakes his head. “I want to learn about you, too.”

“Why?”

He arches a brow. “Do you really have such a low opinion of yourself?”

“Of course not. What does that even mean?”

“You’re the one asking why I’d want to learn more about you,” he says.

I frown. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But now that he says it… that’s exactly how I meant it. I didn’t believe Nikolai would actually want to know anything about me. Why would he? He’s rich and successful. He has an exciting life, even if it is criminal. What would he want with a poor accountant from a broken family in a shithole town with a bratty teenager in tow?

“You apparently haven't had many men interested in getting to know you, I’d guess.”

“Because I’ve been busy,” I snap. “Taking care of my sister is a lot of work. You’ve met her; you know. I don’t have time for anything else.”

“You don’t have time for a life, you mean.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m reading between the lines, saying what you’re too afraid to,” he says. “But if I’m wrong, please tell me about all the men you’ve dated in the last… oh, let’s be generous and say five years.”

I give him a tight-lipped grimace. “‘Generous’ is the last word anyone would use to describe you.”

“Don’t get distracted, beautiful Belle. We’re talking about you.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“But it’s your name.” He winks at me and it feels like a checkmate. Whatever game we’re playing, I just lost.

I try to formulate a response, but I can’t think of one before two orders of what look like soup dumplings are delivered to our table.

“Dumplings?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “I thought this was a Russian restaurant.”

“Georgian dumplings,” he clarifies. “They’re filled with spiced beef and broth. You’ll love them.” He scoops one of the dumplings out with a spoon and holds it out for me to eat. “Here.”

“Are you feeding me?”

“Consider it your lucky day,” he says.

I want to refuse, but the food actually smells incredible. So I lean forward and wrap my mouth around the spoon. As soon as I take a bite, the dumpling bursts in my mouth and I moan. The broth and the meat and the spices… it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, no contest.

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