Aleksei (Marinov Bratva #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

FIONA

I feel him before I see him.

That slow burn at the base of my spine. The hitch in my breath that I pretend is nothing. The way my fingers tighten around a drink I don’t even like.

He’s here. I know it.

The bass pulses low and heavy through the bar, chairs scraping across worn hardwood, while Dana’s laughter cuts through it all. She’s a fellow prosecutor, the kind of woman men orbit around. Blonde. Sunny. Unapologetically warm.

I’m the opposite. I like rules. Boundaries. Men in cages—preferably the kind that slam shut with a satisfying clank after a guilty verdict.

We won today. Put one of them away. Yet here I am scanning the room, pretending it’s not for him.

Dana raises her glass of pinot noir. “You should be smiling after that win today.”

My mouth quirks a fraction. “This is me smiling.”

She rolls her eyes playfully and mutters something about my resting murder face, but I’m only half listening. My gaze drifts again, drawn like a tide.

Every shadow looks like him. Every dark corner promises the same devil. And I hate what it does to me.

It’s been two months since the trial ended. Since I stood in court and laid out every ounce of evidence I had, certain I’d finally be the one to bring down Aleksei Marinov. But the bastard walked free.

Now, he’s everywhere. On the street. Behind me in line for tea or coffee. Even in my damn dreams.

And the worst part? My body reacts before my mind catches up. My pulse stutters. My thighs press. A slow, traitorous ache coils deep.

It’s instinctual. Primal. And utterly unforgivable. A man like him shouldn’t make me feel anything but disgust. But whenever we lock eyes, I go still, needing to be near him, like a match to gasoline.

I take another sip, trying to calm the hurricane churning beneath my skin.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That I’m paranoid.

That he has better things to do at night than stalk the woman who tried to destroy him.

He has plenty willing to keep his bed warm, which would be a much better use of his time.

But I know better. A man like Aleksei doesn’t let things go, and I got under his skin. I saw it. Felt it.

He should’ve forgotten me, but he watches me instead. Smirks like he knows how close I am to strangling him to death. And if I wasn’t sure he’d kill me for it, I’d have filed the restraining order weeks ago.

But deep down? I think I like it. There’s a twisted thrill in knowing I live in his head.

That despite everything, he still can’t stop watching me.

That when he closes his eyes, he sees me.

That I crawled so deep into his mind during that trial, he still hasn’t figured out how to scrape me out.

And if he’s not careful, I’ll do it again.

Because that’s what you do with men like him: you ruin them.

I sip my drink and pretend not to sense the heat at the back of my neck. Pretend I don’t know who it belongs to.

I pretend so hard, I almost believe it.

Until the crowd shifts and I see him.

Aleksei Marinov.

He appeared out of nowhere. Sitting in the corner like a goddamn king, one arm draped across the back of the booth, a glass of something dark and expensive in his hand. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t bother smiling, either. He simply watches me with those deep brown eyes.

And I hate how fast my stomach drops. How my breath goes shallow. How I feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with admiration. My blood pumps louder as I remember the cocky grin he wore as they read the verdict, his dark irises zeroing in on me. Like he was taunting me.

I drop my gaze to my glass, wondering how it’d feel if I broke it into thick shards and stuck one in his neck.

I bet the sick bastard would like it.

My attention fastens to him again. That chestnut hair is slicked back, jaw cut sharp enough to draw blood, his black dress shirt undone just enough to reveal the ink crawling over sun-warmed skin. He looks like something ripped from a GQ spread…if GQ featured monsters.

And still, something raw and alive claws through my chest. It’s repulsive how well-attuned I am to him. How easily my senses betray me. I shift in my seat as his mouth curls just slightly, as though he knows the affect he has on me.

When I glance away, a sense of relief hits me. But like a flame, I’m pulled back to him. Our eyes align, something intense and feral within his. I feel his gaze as though it’s touching me, catching fire, and spreading inside me.

I hate that he can do this to me. Even after everything.

I remember standing in court, looking him straight in the eye, and presenting the murder charge with everything I had. Every word I spoke felt fueled, every point sharpened. I wanted the jury to see the monster I knew he was.

And still, even then, every time our eyes met, something inside me splintered.

It’s the same look now. Dark. Ravenous.

I should have buried that feeling. Drowned it in every legal brief and piece of evidence I filed against him.

But it survived. It grew. And when I lost the case and he walked out of that courtroom free and untouched, what cut deepest wasn’t the failure.

It was the way he looked back at me on his way out, like he owned me.

But I’m the one who owns him.

Obsession. Hatred. Lust. He feels it all…for me.

I’m no better, though. I feel it too. All these damn emotions tangled up in a man who should never make me feel this alive.

As I look away, I find two men approaching, clean-cut, not much older than us.

Oh, great…

“You ladies want another drink?”

Dana perks up immediately, smiling flirtatiously as they pull up two chairs.

“No, thanks.” I stare indifferently, lifting my beverage that I’ve barely made a dent in.

The taller one eyes me intently. Sure, he’s attractive, but I’m just over the whole male population.

“You celebrating something?”

“Yeah. Conviction,” I say flatly.

He laughs like I’m joking.

I know men like him. So sure of themselves. Then they get in bed and last three minutes.

Or maybe it’s just with me.

I can already see it. He’d get me naked and get turned off, but because he’s such a nice guy, he’d switch off the lights and pity-fuck me, and then I’d never see him again.

Not because there’s something wrong with my body.

It’s my skin that turns them off. Segmental vitiligo, something I’ve had since I was around fifteen.

The faint marbled patch of skin crawls over my right hip and around to my back.

I used to hate it, but not anymore. It’s who I am, and if they don’t like it, they can fuck right off.

But I don’t even bother with dating anymore. It’s not worth the effort. There aren’t very many good guys left, and I seem to attract the shittiest of the pile.

My mother thinks I just haven’t found the right man. That one day I’ll find someone just like my dad. But I’m twenty-eight, and that still hasn’t happened.

At that, I glance at Aleksei, and instead of being disgusted, I find myself wondering if he’s the type of man who’d worship every inch of me.

Fuck, why am I even thinking that?

I turn away for just a second, and when I look back, his fingers trace the rim of his glass like he’s already imagining my skin beneath them.

Heat crawls up my neck as the image sneaks in—his hands on me, his mouth grazing mine—and suddenly, it’s impossible to sit still and act like my body isn’t already affected.

It’s dirty. Cruel. Torture.

He’s all wrong. He’s a criminal. But here I am consumed with the very idea of being his, even for the night.

He continues watching, but this time his focus is on the men at our table. His expression doesn’t change, but something about the angle of his jaw, the tension in his posture…it shifts slightly. Like a storm rolling in.

Is he…jealous?

I guess we’ll find out.

I lean in closer to the guy beside me, laughing at whatever lame joke he’s telling and pretending it’s funny. My hand brushes his arm, just enough to test a theory.

And when I glance back toward Aleksei…

He’s gone.

A sharp exhale slips past my lips. Relief rushes in, cold and fleeting, followed by disappointment. They tear through me like rivals, clawing for dominance.

Clearly I’ve gone crazy. The last thing I need is more of his attention. I want him to leave me alone, not stalk me more than he already is.

I push back from the table, grab my peacoat, and slip into it as I rise.

Dana squints up at me. “You heading out?”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Tired.”

She stands to give me a quick hug. “See you at work.”

My attention flicks to the two guys still at the table. One’s droning on about something, and the other winks at me.

Seriously?

“You sure you want to stay?” I murmur. “One of them looks like he works in insurance, and the other just tried to flirt with his eyelid.”

Dana snorts. “I’ll manage.”

“If you say so. Text me when you get home so I don’t have to worry about dragging your body out of a ditch.”

“I’ll be fine.” She laughs, settling back at the table.

I start toward the parking lot, already regretting every second I stayed. The night is different now. Darker, heavier. The kind that presses against your skin, slipping beneath your collar until it chokes you.

As I walk faster, my heels strike the pavement in loud clicks. Each step toward the back lot tightens something inside me. The breeze catches the hem of my dress and slides beneath my coat, and the sensation crawling up the back of my neck only grows more intense.

My body knows before my mind will admit it: he’s here.

My keys are already in my hand, clenched between my fingers like a weapon I plan to use if I have to. When my car comes into view, I force myself forward, locking on to it like salvation.

Just get in. Just drive. Just breathe. You’re fine.

I tell myself that, over and over.

“Running off so soon, Ms. Prosecutor?”