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9
SABRINA
It takes several more attempts for Adrik and me to actually put our clothes on. We fuck again in the shower, and once more on the bed, so ineffective at making ourselves presentable that it’s almost dinner time before we’re fit to leave the hotel.
We each buy a fresh outfit at the shops along Stradun, Old Town’s main street.
Adrik is now wearing a loose linen shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, with his same battered jeans. The shirt should make him look casual and summery, but it doesn’t.
Adrik’s features—like the markings on certain husky dogs—always seem to be scowling. His narrow blue eyes and thick black brows are ferocious, his body language so pugnacious that he could never resemble anything as benign as a tourist.
His charm can be disarming, but the moment he’s not smiling at me, or turning me into putty with those dangerously talented handsof his, I remember that he’s Bratva and that he ran train at Kingmakers long before any of my cousins showed up. There’s a ferocity to him, an edge of viciousness I like.
I’m also wearing cosplay of a kind—a twelve-dollar sundress bought from a kiosk run by a little old lady whose face was as wrinkled as a paper bag from long hours spent squinting into the Mediterranean sunshine. The dress is white eyelet lace, ruffled at the skirt and shoulders, which makes me look as sweet as a daisy. Underneath, I’m still poison ivy.
I sit across from Adrik at a café table overlooking St. Saviour’s Church. The waiter has brought each of us a glass of the local plum brandy, and I’m about to order a shit-ton of food, ‘cause I burned a lot of calories with all this marathon fucking.
“So,” I say, fixing Adrik with a cool stare. “When are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”
If I’ve surprised Adrik, he gives no sign of it. He simply smiles, lifting his brandy and swirling it gently so the amber liquid rotates lazily within the glass.
“Why do you think?” he asks.
I consider the options.
At first I assumed he was here to fuck me, but he’s put in too much effort.
I don’t believe in anything as stupid as love at first sight, and even if I did, the Bratva aren’t romantic.
Which leaves only one possibility, as surprising as I find it …
“You want me to join you in Moscow,” I say.
Adrik smiles, pleased that I understood so quickly. “That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I see something in you.”
“What?”
“Talent,” he says simply. “I want you with me. I want the best by my side.”
My face feels hot, the brandy already going to straight to my head. It’s been a long time since I devoured those pastries this morning. My stomach is empty, my body wrung out.
“So this is a job interview.”
Adrik shrugs, a heavy raise and drop of his shoulders. “If that’s how you want to look at it.”
I poke my fingertip through the holes in my lace skirt. “I don’t need a job.”
“Everyone needs a job.”
“I’m still in school. I’ve got three more years at Kingmakers.”
We’re interrupted by the waiter, who deposits a basket of fresh-baked flatbread directly between us.
Adrik and I reach for the bread at the same time, our knuckles brushing together with a static spark. Every time he touches me, even as casually as this, it upsets my heart rate.
