Page 24 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“I have access to a private suite.” I held the door open. “It’s too loud in that room, and you don’t look comfortable.”

Her eyes raked up and down my frame. “I know who you are, Mr. Volkov.”

Christ, my cock twitched hearing her say my name like that. Somewhere I got a reputation as a playboy. A brutal one, if some tabloids and anonymous bloggers were to be believed.

Watching my father cheat and listening to my mother cry over it made me ill.

Drago wasn’t my blood, but my values aligned more with him than my father. He disgustingly indulged in mistresses who gave him bastards, none of who he ever acknowledged. As soon as Drago touched my sister, he never went near another woman. To me, that devotion made him stronger.

That was the man I wanted to be.

“You may know that I’m Yuri Volkov’s son. Heir to Mid-West Iron and his other holdings,” I don’t say Bratva outright. “But if you heard anything about me being inappropriate with women, you heard nothing but lies.”

She stared at me with a skeptical look. God, what had she heard?

I pointed to the door. “If you want to leave, you can.”

Sandrine hesitated, then stepped closer, signaling she wanted to stay with me.

Good girl.

The door shut behind us with a muted click, sealing us into an intimate space. I didn’t lock it. I didn’t need that hassle, rumor, or accusation.

“Let me get you the water I promised,” I said, gesturing toward the bar.

Her gaze flickered over the bottles lined up above the scarred wooden surface.

With the confidence that didn’t match her father’s warning, she said, “I’ll take a shot of that vodka you’re drinking.”

I huffed out a soft laugh and felt tears in my eyes. “That’s my girl.”

I reached for one of the bottles stocked in this bar. I poured two shots into two frozen glasses, handing her one.

“Cold,” she said, her long fingers wrapped around the thing.

“Vodka should be kept in the freezer and served in a frozen glass. Goes down smoother that way.”

“Cheers.” She clicked our shots, then threw the vodka back, the burn making her eyes water slightly before she swallowed.

“Rebel,” I murmured.

Mine…

She smiled with a spark of pride that had me imagining our fucking wedding invitations. “Maybe.”

I poured another shot and watched the edges of her nerves melt away.

“Are you still in high school?” I asked, cringing and praying the answer was no.

“I graduated last year,” she said, laughing. “I was in the honors program.”

“Impressive.”

“I’m an artist,” she added, her expression dimming just slightly. “Or I want to be.”

“Want to be?”

“I applied for an apprenticeship,” she said, her fingers tightening around the glass. “With Amon Fritz. The renowned painter. He turned me down.”