Merciless Matchup (The Detroit Serpents #3)

Chapter 1

Mina

I blinked up at the night sky, still clutching my purse like it might stop my heart from doing cartwheels. The air practically sizzled with awkward tension as we reached Mikel’s car—his ridiculously shiny black sports car that I suddenly wanted to kick. Just a little. Maybe.

“What just happened?” I asked, my voice coming out in a squeaky, confused puff. My brain was spinning like it had been dunked in glitter and chaos.

Mikel leaned against the hood like a brooding anti-hero in a YA movie. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes doing that angry squint thing. Ugh.

“What?” he snapped. “You were flirting with Volkov. That’s what.”

I stared at him. “What?! I was not—what?! No! I bumped into him and spilled his beer! Because I’m a klutz! You know this!”

He pushed off the car and took a step closer, all intense and annoyed and very… hockey-boy. “Yeah? And the way you laughed? The way you looked at him?”

“Because I was being polite! He had beer all over his jeans! I panicked and said something dumb about laundry and—oh my gosh, you can’t seriously think that was flirting.”

“Oh, come on.” He scoffed, pacing now like some wound-up panther. “It didn’t look like innocent conversation from where I was standing.”

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes. “So you’ve got x-ray vision now? Mind-reading powers? Because I was literally apologizing.”

“You’re not listening,” he growled, stopping to glare at me like I’d just handed Volkov my phone number and social security number. “That guy—he’s not just some rando. He’s Volkov. He gets off on pushing my buttons.”

“Well, maybe you should stop handing him a remote control every time he walks into a room!” I snapped, throwing up my hands. “This isn’t about him. It’s about us!”

“Us,” he repeated like it was a bad punchline. “You sure as hell didn’t look like someone who’s taken when you were laughing at his jokes.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?!” I half-laughed, half-sputtered. “I wasn’t laughing because I was enchanted by his charm, I was laughing because I accidentally dumped his beer on his crotch and I didn’t know how to human!”

He stalked closer again, and suddenly his whole vibe turned even darker. “So what was it then? You feeling sorry for the big bad ‘Russian Reaper’? You trying to fix him or something?”

That one actually stunned me silent for a second. The way he said it, like I was some… bleeding-heart groupie with a hero complex.

I opened my mouth, ready to unleash something clever or devastating, but nothing came out except smoke and fury.

“What do you want me to say, Mikel?” I finally managed, my voice cracking just a little.

“I want you to be honest,” he shot back. “Do you even get how this looks?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said—okay, maybe yelled—a little louder than necessary. My voice was shaking now, but I didn’t back down. I never backed down.

He just glared at me for another beat, then turned away again, dragging both hands through his hair like he wanted to yank it out.

I stood there, heart pounding, wishing we were back at the beginning of the night when everything still made sense—and no beer had been spilled on any Russian hockey players’ pants.

“You made a bet,” I said, my voice wobbling like a Jenga tower on its last block. “A bet, Mikel. Involving me. And Volkov. For thirty days.”

He looked away, jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack a molar. Classic Mikel: avoid eye contact and hope the girl magically forgets the part where she’s turned into a damn trophy.

“What did you expect?” he muttered, his face stormy and sulky all at once. “I had to assert myself. You think I want him thinking I’m some cuck?”

Cuck? I almost laughed. Almost. But the sound that came out was more like a half-choked are you freaking kidding me gasp. My stomach twisted like a pretzel on fire.

“You made a bet about me spending thirty days with Volkov?” I said, slowly, because I genuinely couldn’t believe this was real life and not some Netflix drama where I was the tragic but lovable heroine.

“Look, it’s not what you think—”

“Oh really?” I snapped, arms crossing without my permission. “Because it sounds exactly like what I think.”

He tried to step toward me again, like that was going to magically fix everything. “If I lost—”

“If you lost,” I echoed, voice rising. “So your big loyalty-based strategy was to gamble me away in case you failed?! Like some kind of backup prize?”

He scoffed like I’d said something ridiculous, like I was the dramatic one here. Cute.

“It was just a stupid game! It’s not even about you—”

“But it is about me!” I burst out, the heat in my chest boiling over. “You literally used me as the centerpiece of your pissing match with Volkov! That’s, like, the definition of about me!”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” he shot back, rubbing his temples like I was the one being difficult. “Telling him no would’ve made it worse!”

“Oh wow, sorry for not supporting your fragile ego warfare,” I said sweetly, the sarcasm dripping like poison honey. People nearby were definitely noticing now. Whatever. Add “public spectacle” to the playlist of humiliation.

I sucked in a deep breath, telling myself not to cry because that would just make him think he’d won. Like this was just another little argument we’d laugh about later.

No. Not this time.

“You know what?” I said, calm suddenly. Dangerously calm. Chillingly reality-show finale calm. “You should go.”

He blinked. “Me? Go?”

“Yes. Go. I’ll Uber.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice was full of disbelief. “I’ll take you home.”

“I don’t want to go home with you.”

The words fell out like sharp snowflakes, cold and clean. His face froze.

“Why?” he asked, and I swear, he looked genuinely confused.

I laughed—just once, bitter and bright. “Do I really need to re-explain that you made a bet involving me doing who-knows-what with your literal nemesis?”

“It was if I lost!” he shouted, like that changed the entire tone of the thing.

“If your team lost,” I corrected, my voice low and final. “So yeah, you didn’t think you’d lose—but you were willing to risk me, anyway.”

He stared at me, speechless for once. Good.

I spun on my heel, practically vibrating with leftover rage as I stormed back into the bar.

My heart was still doing somersaults like a caffeinated gymnast and honestly?

I felt like I might explode into glitter and fury at any moment.

Mikel had taken off—stormed off, actually—leaving me alone with a whole suitcase of regret, embarrassment, and the kind of angry tears that taste like salt and betrayal.

I needed out. Out of this bar, out of this night, out of this freaking emotional hostage situation.

I ducked my head and power-walked through the swarm of people, hoping if I looked invisible, I’d be invisible. I didn’t want eye contact, conversation, or even an accidental brush of elbows. And I definitely didn’t want to see him.

But of course. Because the universe loves chaos.

Oh no.

No no no no no.

"Ah. The girl with the freckles."

That voice? Deep. Russian. Problematic.

Nikolai freaking Volkov.

My stomach did a betrayal-flip. Panic spiked like someone had jammed an adrenaline EpiPen into my thigh. I sped up, aiming for the back exit like it was the escape hatch off the Titanic.

The door swung open and—hallelujah—cool night air slapped me in the face like, “Hey girl, you escaped!” I took one step into the alley and tried to breathe. Just a second. Just a moment to be—

“Freckles."

Nope. Not alone.

His voice was behind me again—quieter now. Lower. Almost gentle. And that was dangerous.

I didn’t wait. I bolted. Yep, full-on anime girl panic-sprinted down the alley like my Target leggings depended on it. Fumbling for my phone in my purse, I thumbed open the Uber app with sweaty, trembling hands.

“Wait!”

No thanks!

Then—bam. A hand around my arm. Not hard, but firm. And definitely attached to six feet and change of Russian hockey menace.

“Let go,” I snapped, spinning to face him. My voice came out breathless and a little squeaky, which annoyed me because I wanted to sound like a badass femme fatale—not a panicked woodland creature.

He didn’t let go. Not right away.

Instead, he stared at me with those stupidly intense green eyes that looked like they belonged in a cursed fairytale. Tousled dark hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut my last shred of patience, and that body? Yeah, well. Rude.

“You’re upset,” he said.

Oh. Wow. Thank you, Dr. Volkov.

“No kidding,” I snapped, throwing him a look that could curdle milk. “You don’t get to pretend you care.”

Something in his expression shifted—like concern? Or guilt? Or maybe just really good lighting. Whatever it was, it made my heart do this weird fluttery thing that I immediately shoved back down where it belonged.

“I’m not pretending,” he said softly.

And okay, his grip did loosen a little, but I was still frozen there, caught somewhere between rage, exhaustion, and the inconvenient fact that his hand on my arm wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

But I was too mad to care about chemistry. Too mad to melt.

So I did what I always do when I’m spiraling: I smiled too brightly and lied through my teeth.

“Well, good for you,” I said cheerily, voice two octaves too high. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with an Uber, a bath bomb, and absolutely no hockey players.”

“Where is Petrov?” he asked, his voice all serious and Russian like we were in a Cold War spy movie.

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. “He left.”

He tilted his head. “He left you?”

Ugh. “Well, I sent him away,” I clarified, crossing my arms and trying not to fidget under his intense stare.

He raised an eyebrow like I’d just told him I’d gifted my ex-boyfriend a pet scorpion. “And he just left you?”

“I told him to!” I snapped, heat blooming in my cheeks. Not from shame—from sheer exasperation.

He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice how ridiculously tall he was, how his scent was a mix of cologne, leather, and dangerous decisions.

“You know,” he said, that low voice curling around my spine like velvet, “if you were my woman, I would not leave you at a bar by yourself.”

Oh. Oh, excuse me.

I blinked, then laughed—a little too loud, a little too high. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I want a guy who treats me like a decorative paperweight.”

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. “It is not about control. It is about care.”

“Right, because dragging me around like a purse dog equals affection.”

He smirked. Of course he did. “I do not carry purse dogs. I carry women who fight. Like you.”

My brain short-circuited. “That is… not a normal sentence.”

“It is true,” he said with a shrug that should not have been hot, and yet here we were. “A man who walks away when you say ‘go’ either does not love you, or is too stupid to stay.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want someone who argues with me when I tell them to leave,” I countered, because logic.

“Or,” he said, stepping even closer—his voice like dark chocolate and sin, “you want someone who knows when to stay, anyway.”

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

“Wow,” I said, tossing my hair even though the wind immediately blew it back into my lip gloss. “Is that your move? Brooding protector with a side of possessive charm? Do women just fall apart when you monologue at them in alleys?”

“They usually fall apart when I kiss them,” he said simply.

I sputtered. Audibly.

“No one asked you to say that!” I pointed, flustered beyond measure.

He gave a slow, unapologetic smile. “You’re blushing, Freckles.”

I was not.

I was absolutely blushing.

“Okay, you know what?” I said, spinning on my heel. “Go back inside. Go back to your fan club. I’m getting an Uber, a burrito, and seven hours of sleep. Alone.”

But as I walked away, my heart was thudding in a very annoying, traitorous rhythm.

I was almost to the parking lot—almost free, almost emotionally stable—when I heard footsteps behind me.

Oh no.

Oh yes.

Oh ugh.

“Stop following me!” I called over my shoulder without looking.

“Safety precautions,” came that maddeningly calm voice. “I need to make sure my prize is in the same condition as when I found her.”

I whipped around so fast my purse almost flew off my shoulder. “Excuse me? Prize? I am not a vintage bottle of vodka or a rare Pokémon!”

He blinked slowly, then smirked like I’d just said something deeply amusing. “Of course not. You’re rarer.”

I let out a strangled noise and pointed a very aggressive finger at him. “You. Are a jerk-face.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. You wound me. Your words—like daggers.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll pop that overinflated ego of yours.”

He grinned. “Let me take you home.”

I narrowed my eyes. “No, thanks. I’m not hopping into a car with a guy who thinks he won me like a carnival prize.”

I started walking again, muttering under my breath about narcissists with accents and unfair jawlines.

He kept pace easily. Of course he did. “I get you for thirty days, you know. Though, if you want to stay longer…” He trailed off casually. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

I stopped in my tracks and stared at him like he’d just suggested we run away to the woods and start a goat farm. “Longer? You’re lucky I haven’t pepper-sprayed you after tonight.”

“Fair,” he said with a shrug. “But I am charming. You will forgive me.”

I crossed my arms. “Oh, that’s how it works? You get to be a smirky menace and I’m just supposed to swoon and be like, ‘Oh Nikolai, take me now, you emotionally confusing glacier!’”

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering like a secret. “Is that what you call me? A glacier?”

“No,” I snapped. “I call you a walking hockey penalty.”

He laughed. Laughed. Like I was telling jokes at a comedy club instead of hurling insults with all the grace of a glitter cannon on fire.

We reached my Uber just as it rolled into the lot. I grabbed the handle and turned back to him, pausing.

“Don’t follow me home,” I said.

“I won’t,” he promised, lifting his hands. “Not tonight.”

I frowned. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s not,” he said smoothly. “It’s a countdown.”

I didn’t slam the car door—but I thought about it. A lot.

And as we pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

He was still standing there. Smirking. Waiting.

Like he already knew I’d be back.