Page 23 of Bratva Sacrifice

Katya ducks her head to disguise to flush of her cheeks. Still embarrassed over her motel, her life she lives out of a suitcase. It is foolish, but I am not meant to know this. She stammers, “I—”

“To my home, Katya. Stay with me tonight, where I know you will be safe.”

Her flush deepens, she presses one hand against the purse in her lap. I know she is thinking of that text she sent only minutes ago to her dead brother. Her shoulders relax. Her small hand falls over mine on her knee, and I think there is something like gratitude in that touch. Security. Relief.

She breathes, “Yes.”

Katya is mine tonight—and for as long as I want her.

Chapter Twelve

Catalina

Alexei’s house is massive; a huge Victorian on a sunny, tree-lined street only a few minutes outside of downtown Minneapolis. The house is set back from the road, with a sprawling lawn and several huge trees in the yard that make it feel more private than it is.

I expected something ultra-modern, I think, so I’m surprised when he pulls his Range Rover into the garage of house like this one. “You live here?” I ask as I open the door and step out.

“Temporarily,” Alexei says with a shrug. “Until I find something I like better. This is rental.”

Oh. He’s been spending so much time with me when he’s not working that he might not have had the time, yet, to go house-hunting. Still, the rental is—really nice. Tidy enough that I wonder if it comes with a daily cleaning service, or if Alexei is just fastidious.

There’s a cozy living room wreathed in windows, and I swallow a laugh at the excessive number of throw pillows filling the couch that sits before the massive TV. If he hadn’t told me this house was a rental, I think I would have known the instant I saw them. I really don’t think Alexei is a throw pillow kind of guy.

Somewhere behind me, there’s the sound of a fridge opening. “Wine, koshechka?” Alexei asks from the kitchen.

“That’s okay. I really only like sweet wine.” And he’s very much not a sweet wine drinker. Even if he managed a glass at that first dinner date, I know he doesn’t like it himself.

The soft pop of a cork. “I have your sweet wine. You will like.”

“But you don’t drink it.” I wander back toward the kitchen and watch as he plucks a glass from a high cabinet and pours from a chilled bottle of moscato.

“No,” he says with a shrug. “But you do. So I buy a few bottles and hope one day you will come drink them with me.” His lips quirk into that wolfish half-smile. “Unless instead you want to drink vodka with me.”

My nose crinkles in distaste. It’s not like I’ve never had a mixed drink before—there have been rare occasions—but even the fruit juice in those drinks could hardly mask the bitter burn of the vodka. “I don’t care for it much,” I say.

“This is because you have had only American vodka,” he returns. “Maybe over dinner you try Russian vodka.”

“I don’t know,” I say, and I take the glass Alexei hands over to me. “I really can’t afford to get drunk.” I have work tomorrow, and being hungover at the coffee shop where every smell is already intense doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun.

My hand freezes halfway to my lips, still some inches from that first sip of sweet wine. Shit. I have work tomorrow—and I don’t have a change of clothes. I’ll have to catch the very first train tomorrow all the way back to my motel and, if I’m lucky, I’ll have about five minutes to shower before I’ll have to head back out to work.

Unless.

With one hand, I fish in my purse for my phone, pull up my text messages, and type: Darren, I’m calling in horny.

Seconds later, my phone chirps in my hand as a new text arrives. No words; just several party-hat emojis followed by about half a dozen eggplants. I’m pretty sure that’s permission.

“Okay,” I say as I take a sip of my wine. It’s good. Cold and sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone made any concessions to my tastes, or bought something for me on impulse just in case I wanted it. “Maybe I’ll try vodka.”

∞∞∞

I wish I had dressed nicer. I’m well aware that the hems of my jeans are ratty and ragged. I do a lot of walking, and these were made for comfort, not fashion. Alexei wears jeans, too, but they’re dark and clearly expensive. Even his casual clothes are expensive. No obvious brands or logos, which means either ultra high-end or maybe even bespoke. There’s a gold watch peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

Probably it cost more than his car. He can afford an extravagant car, a watch that’s probably worth more than my life, and to rent this house that is clearly entirely too big for one person living on his own.

I’m not even certain if my bra matches my underwear.

I drink that thought down with another sip of wine, and another. With a face like his and that accent besides, Alexei could probably walk into any bar in the city and walk out ten minutes later with any woman he pleased. There are prettier women, wealthier women. Women who are more his speed all around.