Page 27 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

I was already invested in Sandrine De la Vega. And I had no intention of letting her go. Ever.

Chapter 7

Sandrine

Inside the plane I was dragged onto by the man with the blue eyes, I go inside myself. Tune everything out. The man who thinks I should know him doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the plane ride.

He and the burlier man talk among themselves further up in the front of the plane. There is shouting, and calls are made.

Sandrine. They keep saying that name. Clearly, they made a mistake and grabbed me instead of someone else.

My cheek resting against the soft leather seat, I breathe in a nice smell. Clean. Sharp. It feels familiar in a way, but with no memory, familiar is a shock to the system. I don’t trust it. It speaks of a past I’m not aware of.

Elodie threatened these men with Ares. But the man with the blue eyes didn’t care. Said he knew Ares. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. But why is he calling me by the wrong name?

Out of nowhere, pain detonates behind my eyes. I press my fingers into my temple. With my eyes closed, I hear a clang and feel something cool. My gaze locks in the metal around my wrists.

Handcuffs.

The man who wore the mask just fucking handcuffed me. I scramble back, pressing myself into the corner of the seat. My pulse races so fast it makes me dizzy. “Stay away from me.”

He just stares at me. I don’t know him, but I somehow know the shape of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. His scent triggers something in my brain, as does the way the air seems to rearrange around him.

I clutch my head, shaking strange thoughts away as if I can physically dislodge a vague and blurry memory. “Why did you remove the mask?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t need it on my plane.”

“Why are you⁠—”

“We’ll discuss everything when we get home.”

“Home? Where?” I press.

“You know where we live, come on.”

“No, I don’t know that,” I whisper. “You have me confused with someone else.”

Before he can answer, the plane starts its sharp descent. The man reaches for me, and I wince again.

“Stop it. It’s me, Sandrine.” He brings a seatbelt that had been tucked into the cushions around my waist. “I’m just making sure you’re safe.”

That familiar scent surrounds me, and a cloudy vision I can’t make out jars my brain. When I gasp, he stares at me, and our eyes lock.

God, he’s beautiful in a way that feels wrong to notice and be affected by.

His face looks carved, defined in hard, deliberate lines. His mouth and full lips are a calm slash parting to breathe me in. But it’s his blue eyes that hold me, despite every instinct screaming at me to look away.

They’re not just blue. They’re cobalt.

I’ve seen these eyes before. That exact color. The flecks of gold that give them depth, while so many other blue eyes I’ve seen look like glass. In just a flash, those same eyes are looking at me with warmth and love. And then it’s gone.

We land, and I open my mouth, ready to beg him again to call Ares. But then I remember that he and Lourdes are in Santorini, Greece.

“Let’s go.” The blue-eyed man unbuckles the seatbelt and steers me by my bound hands.

At the top of the airstairs, I take a step and slip. But the man is there, catching me. The air is bitterly cold, and I’m in shorts and flip-flops. I’m brought to a car, and I hug myself in the seat even though the interior is warm.

“Home. Now,” the man says.