CHAPTER 3
DIMITRI
"Sloane is moving to Las Vegas."
Alexei's words drop like a bomb in the office.
Or at least that's how it feels to me.
I freeze, my coffee mug halfway between the desk and my lips. Time stops for a second, then races forward all at once. I feel the heat of the liquid burning my fingers where it spilled over the rim, but I barely register it.
"Excuse me?" The question comes out rough, like my throat suddenly closed up.
Alexei looks up from the documents he's reviewing. We're in his private office on the top floor of the casino. Afternoon light filters through the large windows, casting long shadows across the carpet.
"Sloane requested a transfer to UNLV because she missed Harper," he explains in a neutral tone, but I notice he's watching me a little too closely. "She'll stay with us in the penthouse until she feels like getting her own apartment."
A strange ringing settles in my ears. Sloane. Here. On our turf. In our casino.
Fuck. Everything is going to shit.
What the fuck am I going to do?
"When?" I manage to ask, trying to make my voice sound normal. I fail.
"In three days."
Shit. Shit . SHIT.
"Fine," I say, as if I didn't care at all. As if I hadn't been obsessed with her for months. As if I hadn't jerked off thinking about her body last night. Or every night before that.
Alexei studies me with that piercing gaze of his, the one he uses to figure people out. I hate when he turns it on me.
"Harper's thrilled," he comments, still watching me, as if he wants to provoke a reaction. "She says she was having a really hard time being so far away from her best friend."
I nod mechanically. Of course, Harper needs support. She's far from everything she knows, having a baby. It makes sense she'd want her best friend close.
What doesn't make sense is why my pulse has spiked so high I can feel it hammering in my throat.
"I guess you'll want me to put security on her," I say, clinging to the practical, to my job. "Just in case Keller tries using the friend to get to Harper."
"I'd already thought of that." Alexei nods. "But nothing too invasive. I don't want Sloane realizing the nature of our... business."
I stand up abruptly, unable to stay still. I need to move or I'm going to explode. My body is tight as a bowstring, charged with an energy I don't know how to release.
"I'll handle everything," I say, heading for the door. "I'll have a protocol ready for when she gets here."
When she gets here. Sloane. Here. Fuck .
"Dimitri." My brother's voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob. "Is there anything I should know about you and Sloane?"
I turn slowly. His expression is carefully neutral, but I know my brother. He's connecting dots I'd prefer to keep invisible.
"What do you mean?"
"Last time she was here, I noticed a certain... tension between you two."
I let out a forced laugh.
"The redhead hates me. And the feeling's mutual," I lie. "She's a smartass from Brooklyn who thinks she can stand up to me."
And she makes me so hard it hurts just thinking about it.
Alexei stares at me for a few more seconds, then nods.
"Good. Because she's my wife's best friend. And I don't want Harper getting upset."
The warning is crystal clear. Don't fuck this up. Don't get close to her. Don't complicate things.
"Message received," I murmur before walking out, slamming the door shut.
I walk down the hall with long strides, feeling like the walls are closing in on me. The casino's AC suddenly feels insufficient. I'm suffocating, I need space.
In the private elevator, I lean against the mirrored wall and watch my reflection. I'm pale, with a sheen of sweat on my forehead. I look like a fucking teenager. This is ridiculous. She's just a woman. A woman who despises me, by the way.
But you don't despise her , a voice whispers in my head. Not at all.
The elevator opens on the casino floor and I get out like I'm being chased. I weave through the gaming tables, ignoring greetings from the employees. I need to get out, I need air. I need...
You need to fuck , I tell myself. That's all. It's been too long.
I stop dead in my tracks, a few feet from the main entrance. How long has it been exactly since I got laid? I try to remember the last time I was with a woman. It was... fuck, it was before Sloane visited Las Vegas for the first time. Four months ago? Five?
The impact of the revelation hits me like a punch to the gut. I've never gone this long without sex. I've always had a ravenous appetite, a need to lose myself in anonymous bodies to silence the noise in my head.
And suddenly, nothing. Since I saw her.
I'm not going to spend a single second analyzing why. There are simpler explanations. I've been busy. The war with the Irish. Harper's pregnancy. Too much stress.
What I need is a quick fuck. Someone to make me forget those green eyes that haunt me. Someone who isn't her.
The Molotov Lounge is in full swing when I walk in. Dim lights, low-volume electronic music, the clink of ice in crystal glasses. It's the casino's most exclusive bar, where the rich come to show off and spend. Where beautiful women look for men with money.
The bartender recognizes me instantly—I'm the fucking owner, after all—and pours me a whiskey without me having to ask. Double Macallan, neat. I sit at the bar, back to the wall, watching the room.
It doesn't take me long to spot the possibilities. A blonde in a red dress watching me from her table. A brunette on the dance floor who moves with deliberate sensuality when she catches my gaze. Even the waitress, who leans over more than necessary when she serves me, showing off her cleavage.
Options. Easy. Available. I just have to choose.
I take a long drink, letting the whiskey burn down my throat. The alcohol warms my blood but fails to relax me. I'm too tense, as if every muscle in my body is primed to fight. Or fuck.
The blonde makes her move. She approaches the bar, pretending she wants to order a drink. Her perfume reaches me before she does, sweet and cloying. Too intense. It turns my stomach.
"Mind if I sit?" she asks with a rehearsed smile, pointing to the empty stool beside me.
She's pretty. Objectively pretty. Long legs, perfect tits—probably bought—full lips painted red. Six months ago, I would've already had her against the bathroom wall.
"Go ahead," I reply, but my voice sounds forced even to me.
She sits, crossing her legs deliberately so her dress rides up. She talks about something—I have no fucking idea what—while playing with the rim of her glass. Her hand slides "accidentally" onto my knee.
And then I feel it. A visceral repulsion, an absolute rejection. I don't want her touching me. I don't want to smell her artificial perfume. I don't want to hear her fake laugh.
It's not her .
She isn't a redhead. She doesn't have green eyes that challenge me. She doesn't have that crooked smile that promises trouble. She wouldn't call me an asshole to my face.
It's not Sloane.
I stand up so abruptly that the blonde jumps, spilling part of her cocktail.
"Sorry, I have to go," I murmur, leaving a hundred-dollar bill on the bar for a whiskey I've barely touched.
I leave the bar feeling like I'm drowning. The casino's air conditioning seems insufficient, the noise of the slot machines drilling into my brain. I need to punch something. Or someone.
The casino's private gym is deserted at this hour. Only a single fluorescent light illuminates the space, casting harsh shadows against the walls. It smells like sweat, like old leather, like disinfectant. Like reality.
I yank my t-shirt off and throw it on the floor. My muscles tense beneath my skin as I wrap my hands. I don't bother putting on gloves. I want to feel the pain.
The first blow against the bag is like a release. The impact travels from my knuckles to my shoulder, loaded with all the frustration I've been bottling up. I strike again. And again. Setting a brutal rhythm.
Left, right, hook, uppercut.
Sweat starts sliding down my chest, down my back. My breathing becomes heavy, labored. My muscles burn satisfyingly. This is what I need. Pain. Clarity. Control.
But her face keeps appearing in my mind. Her hair red like fire. Her defiant expression. The way she looked at me last time, as if she could see through all my layers to the monster inside.
I hit harder. The bag swings violently, the chains creaking in protest. My knuckles start to bleed, staining the white wraps red. I don't care. The pain is good. The pain is real. The pain isn't her .
"FUCK!" I shout, landing one last devastating blow that makes the bag swing like it’s going to rip off the ceiling.
I stop, panting. My heart hammers in my ears. My legs shake.
What the fuck is wrong with me? What kind of spell has that woman cast on me? She's not even here yet and she's already driving me crazy.
I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath. Reality hits me hard: I'm fucking obsessed. And she's going to be here, within my reach, in three days.
In my brother's house. Under my protection.
Forbidden like the fucking forbidden fruit.
A bitter laugh escapes my throat. If there is a God, he must be laughing his ass off right now. Dimitri Morozov, the man who can have any woman he desires, obsessed with the only one he can't touch.
I look at my bloodied hands. These hands that have killed. That have tortured. That have destroyed. Hands like mine should never touch her.
And yet, as I stand up and head to the showers, I know I'm a goner. Because when Sloane Murphy sets foot in Las Vegas, all my good intentions are going to shit.
My sister-in-law's best friend. The woman who hates me. The only one I'm obsessed with.
I'm going to stay away from her.