Ah, masquerade balls. The room is crowded with men in tuxedos and women in sparkling gowns. Intricate masks hide the sordid individual underneath. And the sordid individual at my side is quite the vision in a black satin dress that clings to every curve. The rhinestones of the silver mask delicately tied around Camilla's face catch in the light of the chandeliers.

"They don't seem like the usual crowd." Camilla eyes a man as he passes us.

"Why do you say that?"

"There's far less bullshit being exchanged. No fake smiles." She turns to face me. "They aren't politicians."

"Very observant." I motion toward the bar at the back of the room. "I'm assuming you'll be having your vodka?"

"I've grown quite fond of your Russian vodka." We stop at the bar and she glances over the array of bottles. "Gabriel would be horrified."

I order a whiskey and vodka, which the barkeep quickly pours. I toss a hundred rubles on the counter and hand Camilla her drink. She immediately downs it, slamming the glass onto the bar top. "Another," she says.

The bartender's brow wrinkles as he glances at me, waiting for me to interpret, I assume. She raises the glass and taps on the side. "Vodka."

"He doesn't speak English."

Rolling her eyes, she reaches across the counter and snags the bottle. "He'll pay for it." She smiles before ripping the metal pour spout out and tossing it on the bar. The man behind the bar looks horrified.

I drag my hand down my face before grabbing her arm. "Civilized, Camilla. Civilized!"

Her eyes flicker in a tease as her teeth scrape over her bottom lip. "Oh, Ronan, it's a party." Her fingers trail around the back of my neck before she presses her lips to my jaw. "Dance with me." She nips at my skin before she pulls away, flashing a blinding smile as she takes my hand and backs us toward the center of the room.

I yank her to me, her gracious curves a welcomed heat against my skin. Her hips sway and roll in an exotic dance that is not at all in agreement with the music. She truly is the embodiment of lust, desire, forbidden things. With a grin, she lifts the bottle and takes a heavy swig before she kisses me. "Every woman here wants to be me right now," she whispers against my ear, hanging the bottle over my shoulder.

"And every man wants to be me." I smirk.

Laughing, she spins away. Camilla is uninhibited. Uncontrolled. People around us watch her, curious, I'm sure, about the beautiful Latino woman with the angry Russian.

There's a tap on my shoulder. "Ronan." I recognize Ivan's voice before I turn around.

"Yes?" I say, Camilla's hand still clutched in mine.

His dark eyes shift toward Camilla as he subtly nods in the direction of the hallway. "I need a word."

"I'm listening..."

He uneasily shoves his hands in his pant pockets and sighs. Hesitating. I know he doesn't want to speak in front of a woman—a foreign woman at that. I clear my throat and cock a single brow. "Viktor is dead," he says.

"Ah," I spin Camilla around and shrug, "'tis the way of the world." Camilla smirks and Ivan stares blankly through me.

"But... the Italians put a hit on him..."

"Yes, and?"

"We should retaliate." There's a fire in his eyes. Revenge. Such a petty waste of time.

"No."

Pressing against me, Camilla slides her hand around the back of my neck. "Did we like Viktor?" she whispers, her question laced with curiosity.

"I don't really like anyone."

She pats my chest. "So true."

Ivan clears his throat and my attention swings back to him. "Send my condolences to his wife," I say.

"Here... have a drink." Camilla thrusts the bottle of vodka against Ivan's chest and he takes it, glaring at her. "I'll go get some more." She disappears among the crowded ballroom and I turn my attention to Ivan.

"We are above such things as retaliating."

His jaw clenches. "We will look weak." His voice wavers under false courage.

"Viktor was weak."

Ivan wants to argue, I can see it in his eyes, but he knows better. Instead he nods his head, placing the bottle of vodka on a nearby table as he retreats.

A man whose name I can't recall moves in front of me and shakes my hand, droning on and on about the death of Derivichi. I glance over his shoulder at Camilla standing at the bar and I can't help but notice that the man next to her is too close. There's an air of unease to him, and my senses bristle. Without a word, I turn away from the man still rambling and shoulder my way to the bar. The man at the bar moves his arm suddenly and Camilla's body stiffens before she hunches over. Her fingers clutch his forearm as she stumbles back a step. Everyone around them freezes. My gaze drops to the blood spreading across the front of her dress. Heat consumes my body as a rage sets in. My jaw tenses and I throw my hand into the air, snapping my fingers. Before I can reach them, two of my guards seize the man and escort him out of the room. I will deal with him later. The gentleman next to Camilla grabs ahold of her as her legs threaten to give way. In most places, a random stabbing would cause mass chaos, but not here. This is not out of the ordinary among the seedy criminals of the Russian underworld, but what is uncommon is that someone would dare touch what is mine.

Camilla moves her bloodied hand away from her stomach, glancing down and wincing before she places it back over the wound.

The second I reach her; I wrap my arm around her waist pulling her away from the man in the tuxedo. She falls against me, her skin cold and damp with sweat. I help Camilla to a chair and kneel in front of her, gently moving her hand away. Blood wells from the stab wound. When I press my palm over her stomach, the warm blood sends a wave of arousal through me and I fight back a groan. "Igor," I shout, "get the car!"

Camilla fights to keep her eyes open, her head keeps lulling to the side. The golden hue of her skin has washed white. "Stay awake for me, little kitty," I whisper before standing and sweeping her off her feet and carrying her to the car.

Someone else made her bleed. Someone else took what was mine. The thought plays over and over on the ride home, flaming the anger seething within me. She is mine. Her blood is mine. And I do not share what belongs to me. Ever.