Hunted By the Masked BRATVA (The BRATVA Masquerade #4)

Emilia

The glass flute feels like ice against my palm.

This delicate crystal stem, filled with golden champagne and a drop of poison is the most dangerous thing I've touched in years.

The ballroom glitters around me, all marble and mirrors and the kind of wealth that makes people forget they're mortal.

The annual Bratva masquerade is exactly what I expected: excessive, elegant, and crawling with monsters in tailored suits.

They wear masks tonight, black silk, leather, silver gilt that catches the light, but I know their faces. I've studied every single one.

Especially his.

Artur Troskoy stands near the eastern balcony, laughing at something one of his associates said. His mask is simple, expensive. Gold filigree threading along black silk. He looks distinguished. Respectable. Like a man who built his empire through smart investments and careful strategy.

Not like a man who put bullets in my father and brothers while I bled out on our dining room floor.

My hand tightens on the glass. The tiny vial I emptied into it thirty seconds ago is already tucked back into the hidden pocket of my gown. Ricin, tasteless and invisible. He'll be dead in days, his organs shutting down one by one. By the time anyone realizes it was murder, I'll be a ghost again.

I've been a ghost for six years. What's one more disappearing act?

I start toward him, my heels clicking softly against the marble.

The midnight blue silk of my gown whispers around my legs.

I chose this dress carefully. It’s elegant enough to belong here, simple enough not to draw attention.

The gold accents catch the light just enough to make me look like I'm supposed to be holding expensive champagne.

Twenty feet. Fifteen.

Troskoy is still talking, his back partially to me. Perfect. I'll approach from the side, offer him the glass with a demure smile. He won't remember me. Why would he? I was nineteen when he killed my family, and I was supposed to die with them.

The scar on my chest burns beneath the silk. Phantom pain, my therapist used to call it. Before I stopped going. Before I realized the only therapy I needed was revenge.

Ten feet.

I can see the gray at his temples now, the way his mask sits slightly crooked. He's aged well, the bastard. Comfortable in his power. Comfortable in his—

A hand closes around my wrist.

The champagne flute slides from my grip, spinning as it falls through the air in a perfect circle. It shatters against the marble floor with a sound that feels too loud, too sharp. Golden liquid spreads across white and gray veined stone like an accusation.

I spin, fury igniting in my chest, and find myself staring at a mask.

Not silk. Not jeweled. This one is different, plain, almost crude. Black ceramic or plaster, covering the upper half of a face. No expression. No decoration. Just smooth, blank anonymity.

And beneath it, a jaw carved from granite and a mouth that curves into something too dark to be called a smile.

"Careless," he says, his voice low and textured like smoke over gravel. "Dropping your drink like that."

My heart slams against my ribs. He's tall. Taller than Troskoy, taller than most of the men here. Broad shoulders strain against a black suit that probably costs more than my modest apartment. His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, warm and unyielding.

I yank my arm back. He lets me go, but doesn't step away.

"You knocked it out of my hand." My voice comes out cold, controlled. Good. He can't know that panic is clawing up my throat.

"Did I?" His head tilts slightly, and I hate that I can't see his eyes properly. "Strange. I could have sworn you were about to hand that particular glass to someone who didn't deserve champagne tonight."

My blood turns to ice.

He knows.

No. He can't know. He couldn't have seen. I was careful, I've always been careful—

"I don't know what you're talking about." I force myself to meet where his eyes should be, refusing to look away first. "It was just a drink."

"Just a drink," he repeats, and there's something almost amused in his tone. "For Troskoy."

Hearing the name out loud makes my hands want to curl into fists. I keep them loose at my sides, keep my expression neutral behind my own mask of delicate gold lace that covers the upper half of my face.

"I don't know anyone by that name." The lie tastes bitter.

"No?" He steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. Men like this, and I know what kind of man wears a mask like that in this world, they can smell fear. "Then you won't mind if I ask him to join us. Clear up this little misunderstanding."

"I mind." The words come out sharper than I intended. "I mind you putting your hands on me. I mind you destroying my drink and my dress. And I mind you standing between me and my evening."

For a moment, he's silent. Then that almost-smile widens into something that makes heat coil low in my stomach despite the danger crackling between us.

"Your evening." He lets the words hang in the air. "What did you have planned for your evening, milaya?"

The endearment should sound mocking. Instead, it sounds like a promise. Or a threat.

I can't tell which is more dangerous.

Behind him, I can see Troskoy glancing toward the sound of breaking glass. Any second now, someone will come to clean it up. Any second now, my window will close completely.

Unless—

My gaze snaps past the stranger's shoulder, to the long table against the far wall. Ten white masks sit in a neat row, each one numbered in elegant gold script. The masks for The Hunt.

I've heard about this tradition. Every Bratva masquerade ends the same way: women who want to play volunteer to be hunted through the hotel grounds. If they make it without being caught when the bell tolls, they get one wish granted by the hosts. The Vasiliev’s.

But then men who play…if they catch a woman they can claim whatever they want.

It's supposed to be thrilling, consensual danger.

A game for people who find regular parties too boring.

I never planned to participate. I planned to be gone before midnight, when The Hunt begins.

But right now, that table might be my only route to ending Troskoy.

"Excuse me," I say, but I don't wait for permission.

I slip past him, my shoulder brushing his chest. He's solid as stone. He doesn't try to stop me, but I can feel his attention following me across the ballroom like a physical weight.

The table is suddenly swarmed upon by women who are giggling and joking. Panic rises in me, that I’ll miss my chance, again.

But one mask remains. Number four.

My hand closes around it just as the first chime of midnight echoes through the ballroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcement booms from hidden speakers. "The Hunt begins in one minute. Participants, please make your way to the northern entrance."

I clutch the mask against my chest and turn.

He's standing exactly where I left him, hands in his pockets, watching me. Even without seeing his eyes, I know he's smiling behind that blank black mask.

Then he reaches up and removes it.

For three seconds, I see his face, all brutal angles and dark intensity, with eyes like a wolf's, before he pulls a different mask from inside his jacket. This one is red. Crimson silk that covers the same portion of his face as before.

A hunter's mask.

Our eyes meet across the ballroom, and I understand with perfect, crystalline clarity:

He's not letting me get away.