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“You’re good to her. It’s hard to imagine that the devil himself raised you.”

Laughing, Zasha followed my gaze to the bar. Either the bartender was off early, or he’d decided Yuriy was worth losing his job. His full attention was on Yuriy.

“Could you keep an eye on him?” Zasha asked. “Just… make sure he doesn’t get into trouble. Please.”

“I should return with you. He’s an adult.” Though he acted like a horny teenager who had no self-control.

“Yeah, but…he’s still Yuiry. Who knows? Maybe you can get to know him a little better. There’s a lot more to him than the fuckboy you think he is, and you’ll see that if you give him a chance, which I hope you do. Yel and I both want you to be involved in our kid’s life.”

Before I could say anything else, he walked away, taking it for granted that my silence meant I had agreed to babysit his grown-ass brother.

6

YURIY

The bartender was saying something—something flirty, judging by the curve of his mouth. He’d been flirting with me for the better part of the night, but I wasn’t really listening.

I’d started the night paying attention. Anything to get laid. Dylan, the bartender, had a decent smile, a nice body under his getup, and an appreciation for my ink that made me curious for a whole ten minutes. But the novelty wore off fast.

My gaze kept drifting over my shoulder to where Stas stood at the pool table, cue in hand, chalking the tip like he was prepping a weapon. Two other men circled him, laughing and talking in that easy, careless way men did when they were comfortable with each other. Stas wasn’t. His shoulders stayed tight, he had rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows, and his silver hair caught the low bar light every time he leaned over the table.

The bastard looked carved from sin.

“…so how about we get married and have a bunch of kids,” Dylan said. “Would you like that?”

Stas’s forearms flexed, muscle shifting beneath the cuffs of his rolled sleeves. There was a steadiness to him, a quiet control that made it impossible to look away.

“Yuriy? What do you say?”

I blinked, bringing my attention back to Dylan. “Yeah, sure.”

He smirked. “You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

“Not really.” I sipped my drink. The vodka I’d switched to burned less than I wanted it to. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Dylan leaned on the counter, chin propped in his hand. “Maybe I should skip to the part where I ask when you’re gonna admit you’ve got the hots for the silver fox you came in with?”

I snapped my head toward him. “The fuck? I have the hots for who?”

He grinned, unbothered. “The man with the murder eyes. You’ve been staring at him like you’re debating whether to kiss him or kill him. What’s the story there?”

I snorted, even though my pulse betrayed me with a small, sharp jump. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Mm.” He shrugged, wiping the bar down. “Maybe. But I’m not blind. You want to fuck him.”

My gaze flicked back to Stas. He was lining up a shot, muscles shifting under his shirt. When he bent forward, the fabric stretched tight over his back, and my throat went dry.

That silver hair…

Christ.

“Fine,” I muttered. “He’s hot. So what?”

Dylan’s chuckle was low and pleased. “What are you going to do about it?”

I swirled my glass, watching the ice melt. “Nothing. We can’t stand each other. I’d rather go home with you tonight. Or take you to a hotel or something.”

If I didn’t burn off the tension somewhere else, this game I was playing with Stas would stop being about getting under his skin and start exposing how deep he’d gotten under mine.