One week later…
These things are so boring and irritating. A time-sucking waste. My fingers itch to write in my diary—to scribble down all the frustrations simmering inside, just waiting for someone to shake me like a can of pop and watch the explosion of chaos. Instead, ink will display my thoughts written in urgent scrawls as soon as I get home and throw this dress back in my sister’s closet where it belongs. Why I must attend these things baffles me. Usually, I’m seen but not heard—ushered away in the shadow of my incredible sister, Diana.
Quite frankly, I’m happy to be there, if I can’t be anywhere else.
My brain is going numb, and I’m about to slip into a power nap if this guy keeps talking about how perfect Viktor is—was—and how sad and unjust his early death is…was.
Viktor was as driven and brutal as the rest of the Vasiliev family. His death came as a surprise, but sitting here pretending he died doing something heroic is a stretch.
I actually liked him. Not that he ever noticed me, but he did have this air about him. A hypnotic charm. And it’s a shame, at eighteen, he thought he had to prove his worth by entering such a vicious, degrading, sadistic game. What’s more shameful is his father allowed him to. Encouraged him to.
The Games are the backbone of all our family empires. It’s what keeps us at the top of the food chain. Feed the wealthy their desires and depravities, and they’ll keep your wallets fat and your influence far and wide.
My father is a sponsor, and unbeknownst to me, before Viktor’s passing, he was also hoping to acquire partnership via marriage. Not his, of course. That’s what daughters are bred for.
Bastard.
Slipping a flask from my inside jacket pocket and discreetly uncapping the lid, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a hearty swig. The burn ignites a warm path down my throat and settles in my stomach. An older lady seated beside me on the left eyes me, distaste crinkling her lips into a purse.
Screw you, lady.
This is the second funeral I’ve been forced to sit through this week. Viktor should have been a sure thing. The Vasilievs are the freaking Games for crying out loud. My father let them know how much faith he had in Viktor by dropping a large amount on him competing.
Now, that money’s gone. Someone had a hit on Viktor, that much is known, but who ordered it may never be uncovered. God help them if it ever does. It’s the rule that no retaliation can come from a death carried out within the arena, but our father, the cunning Leonid Volkov, doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and the Vasilievs sure as hell don’t either.
He’s beyond angry.
And when dear old dad is angry, he gets even. In a few months from now, I bet he’ll have a plan to settle the score. I cringe just thinking about what that may be.
The liquor pools in my stomach, urging me to eat something to soak it up.
Drinking is out of character for me, but the rebellious young woman inside me is screaming to be allowed to take over for a while.
I like her.
And once she’s out, it’s hard to stuff her back inside.
The gentle murmur of the wind rattling the church doors reminds me why I never wear dresses. If not for the alcohol warming my blood, I’d be a popsicle right now. The church is full, but there’s an odd emptiness in the atmosphere, causing a shiver to race through me.
My gaze searches for him. Vlad Vasiliev. Strong. Formidable. Beautiful. His dark hair is gelled into a style that makes me crave to run my fingers through it and mess it up. The thought of him having messy hair for once in his life has me stifling a highly inappropriate giggle.
Maybe I should calm down with the flask sipping.
I let my eyes fixate on the tick of his jaw. All humor dissipates as I appreciate the muscle in his neck flexing every now and again. I wonder what he tastes like right there. He’s sitting to the right, just in front of me. If I lean forward, I could probably smell the shampoo he uses. I bet it’s something masculine and expensive.
I straighten my back and clench my thighs. The lady beside me shifts and I notice her watching me as I check Vlad out. Ignoring her barely contained curled lip, I continue my visual sampling. It’s not often I get to be this close to him and stare unabashedly.
The suit he’s wearing fits over his broad shoulders like a second skin, not a wrinkle or piece of lint to be seen. His polished look is like his armor—it deters people from even approaching him. I certainly never have.
Dominance, money, and supremacy emanate from him in droves, like a forcefield he’s conjured up through sheer will.
I’ve been watching him from the background since I could walk. Learning, deconstructing, and pining despite my brain wishing I didn’t. But it’s impossible not to. He’s my favorite addiction.
I take him in like air to my lungs and breathe.
He appears more angry than sad based on the way he’s gritting his teeth and how tense he is. Figures, these assholes are probably more pissed off their Viktor didn’t make it out than they are at losing a loved one.
My sister told me a secret the day Viktor died—one that turned my whole life on its head. She was to be promised to Viktor. Father was already in negotiations for their arranged marriage, and she was to be his wife—a widow if The Games had happened half a year later. Another reason why Father was furious. It’s almost like he blames Yuri Vasiliev for sacrificing his youngest son to prevent their union.
All my life, my mother promised our lives wouldn’t be like hers. That our marriages would be our choice and not what benefits the family.
I’d almost believed her too.
When she couldn’t produce a son for my father, though, he began to train my sister and me for the family business. Made sure we were fluent in five languages and paid for private schools and tutors to build our knowledge of the world around us. He even went as far as making us travel to be educated in the countries’ cultures he thought were important. He reinforced that, just because we’re female, it didn’t lessen our worth or power when it came to business, not if we didn’t want it to.
We wouldn’t be bound to make a husband happy while he runs an empire because we’d have our own empire and love. Duty would not rule our destiny.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
My soul deflated the day my sister told me of our father’s plan to marry her to Viktor. He was only eighteen, same as me. Diana is twenty-four, and to my astonishment, and disappointment, she was going to go through with it. The words, “It will be good for our family,” fell from her lips like cyanide, poisoning the respect and admiration I’d carried for her all my life. She sounded just like Father.
And if he plans for her to be married, then that means I’ll be after her and the business we’ve been learning to take over since we could talk will be merged with the Vasiliev family. It’s a good business strategy but it strengthens the Vasiliev’s more than anything else. We will be expected to lie on our backs and produce heirs for our husbands like it’s the eighteen-hundreds.
I wonder if Diana is sad her betrothed is gone or if she’s secretly happy…
Pondering these thoughts, I take another swig, desperate for more of the numbing burn, and run my hand over the black dress gathered in thick layers on my thighs. The material itches and there’s a draft running up the back of my legs.
A nudge at my hip causes me to almost spill the liquor in the flask.
I hiss and scrunch my nose at my sister seated to my right. Her lips turn up in a devious grin, then quickly slip back to two red, plump lines, stoic. Only my sister could look sophisticated with red lipstick at a funeral.
Her hand slides over mine, taking the bottle and screwing the cap on.
Party pooper.
I snatch it back, but my hands are freezing, and I fumble to grasp it, causing it to tumble from my fingers and clatter to the church floor, skittering under the pew in front of me. I cringe internally and begin twisting my earring to calm my nerves.
My sister’s eyes expand in horror as Vlad turns around in his seat in front of us. It’s almost in slow motion to my galloping heart.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My breath gets caught in my windpipe as his dark amber orbs flit in my direction. Narrowed. Irritated. Fierce.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Damn, my head spins as if I’ve been drinking a thousand-proof liquor and not just eighty.
My lids flutter without permission, and my stomach knots. It’s the first time in my entire life he’s ever looked directly at me as though he sees me as more than some kid. Eighteen years, and never once has someone impacted me with just a look.
My insides curdle, and my lungs fight for air. I’m paralyzed. If looks could incinerate, I’d be a puff of smoke right now.
His irritation annoys me and excites me all at once. I find my lips moving despite my sister’s hand reaching over to squeeze mine in warning.
I want to push him and keep his anger, his eyes, his attention all on me. To bask in it—to let it soak into my skin so I can remember what it feels like.
“Why wasn’t it an open casket?” I want to ask. The curious cat inside me has been wondering since the death announcement. Instead, I appease my sister and father, who would be angry if he knew I’d been drinking and interrupting a funeral of one of the other First Families.
“Sorry,” I offer with a stutter and a shrug, but his head has already returned front and center, and my words hit air, dispersing into nothing. My arms wrap around my middle and I shrink into the background, back into Irina—back into the shadow I’ve always been.
I’m not this rebel—not a woman who could be with a man like him.
I’m just a girl, a Volkov girl, who will do what she’s told and live like a bird with an injured wing, wanting so badly to fly away and make her own path, but stuck flightless.
I’m the quiet one. My sister takes the driver’s seat while I sit back, unassuming and calculating. A wailing sound draws the attention of most of the guests, and I follow their curiosity to see Vika, Viktor’s twin sister, sobbing and clutching onto Veniamin Vetrov. He’s holding her up with one arm without even looking down at her folded-up, limp frame molded against him like melting ice cream. She’s wearing a pink dress that is almost inappropriate for a club, let alone a church funeral.
Vlad draws my eyes. Again. I want to see his emotion, his empathy for his sister. Instead, he rolls his head over those impressive shoulders, and the tick in his jaw is back.
I take out my notepad from my pocket and let the pencil flit over the paper. My mind clears, and the room closes in until there’s nothing but darkness—all except Vlad in front of me.
The calm washes over me as I study his features, the dark tanned skin stretched over his impressive bone structure. Strong jawline. Neat, straight nose. Feathered fans of black lashes sprayed over dark, penetrating orbs. When he pinned me with them moments ago, it was like amber rays swirling around an eclipse. You know you should look away to avoid damage, but it’s such a rare sight, you can’t help but stare right at it.
I’m blinded by him.
Movement rushes around me, expanding the room and bringing me back to the present. Everyone is leaving. I stand, shoving the pad back in my pocket, and follow the coattails of my sister.
A vise grips my arm, halting my steps. I’m spun around and come face to face with the steel wall of Vlad. He towers over me, but I can’t meet his gaze for fear of what he’ll see in mine. His scent encompasses me, causing my head to lighten. He smells masculine and expensive, just like I imagined. It’s earthy, like rosewood, and warms places I haven’t been touched before. The lapels of my jacket are tugged open with the hand that was just wrapped around my bicep, and he shoves my flask into the inside pocket, the back of his hand brushing against my nipple as he does. It’s not intentional, but I feel it everywhere. He makes the air around me condense, and my lungs compress.
Breathe, I will myself.
The baritone hum of his voice hits me like a weapon when he says, “We should get lunch tomorrow.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My mouth drops open as my heart thunders like the cage of a Roman warrior before battle. I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have to say anything because I hear my sister’s lyrical tone.
“Sure, Vlad, I’ll have it set up and email you the details.”
Dragging my eyes upward, I see he’s sidestepped me and is looking and talking to my beautiful sister.
Of course.
Of course he’s talking to Diana. Not me.
I shake my head. A laugh bubbles up in my chest, but I gobble it down and leave them to get some air. My childish crush on Vlad has always been a secret, and it will remain just that.