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That said, it’snothis lopsided and somewhat awkward smile that puts me off from dating him. It’s?—
I flinch when Dimitri sidles up close to me and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck in a way that makes my stomach roil.
Yeah.
Thatwould be the reason I have no interest in the guy. Forget his general thuggish demeanor and the way he barks at most people: he has this habit of touching me all the time,despiteme asking him repeatedly not to.
“Come, Freya,” he growls in his thick Russian accent. “I’ll escort you past this filth.”
Dimitri grins smugly, leading me past the guards and toward the entrance by way of his meaty hand on my neck. Just before we get to the front door, the Yakuza guard stops him with an arm.
“Shecan go in,” the guy mutters. He turns to smile coldly at Dimitri. “Youmay not. No soldiers, from either side. Your boss and mine have agreed to this.”
“Listen to me,” he hisses at the Yakuza guy. It’s one of his less endearing traits. He gets downright angry when someone tells him he can’t do something. “I will take?—”
“You know what?” I neatly slip out of Dimitri’s grip and turn to smile brightly at him. “Sinceyou asked, I think Iwillbe okay going in by myself.”
He frowns in a clueless way. “I never asked?—”
“Have a good night, Dimitri.”
Before he can grab me again, I quickly turn and step into the house.
The sound of muted conversation and clinking glasses washes over me like a wave. I’ve always hated parties like this. Too many people…too many secrets lurking behind carefully crafted smiles. But tonight is different. Tonight, everything feels...sharper. Like the air itself is charged with a dark electricity.
I make my way through the crowd, my boots heavy on the marble floor. I feel on edge, like the latent anxiety in the back of my skull is poking its nose out of its room to say hello. For a second, I think of the little joint in my clutch and glance around for a balcony to escape to for a few minutes.
But that’s a terrible idea. I might not love that my best friend is marrying into the Yakuza. And I might have dressed like a walking middle finger for this shindig. But Iama guest here.
Plus, this evening is going to be tough enough to get through. Being a little stoned would probably make it a nightmare.
I decide to get a drink instead.
I make my way to the bar, ignoring the glances from the other guests. Some of them know who I am by way of Kir and are choosing not to engage with me. The other half has no idea who the gothy little weirdo is who just walked in looking like she’s on her way to the prom with Marilyn Manson, but arealsofine staying clear of me.
Suits me.
I get a vodka on the rocks—two lemons—from the catering bar set up on one side of the spacious, tastefully decorated mainliving room. I take a sip, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.
It’s only then that I feel it. A weight on me. A shadow.
Like I’m beingwatched.
I turn and scan the crowd, but no one stands out. Everyone’s too caught up in their conversations, too wrapped up in their shows of wealth and power to notice anything else. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It stays with me, burrowing under my skin, making my pulse quicken.
I glance around again, and this time, I tense when my gaze lands on a figure standing way across the room.
He’s in a dark suit. Tall, with big, muscled shoulders, a chiseled, predatory jawline, and piercing ice-blue eyes.
…He’s looking right at me.
Assessing.
Flaying open.
I slug back another heavy swallow of vodka.
Mal, Kenzo’s cousin.
