14. Tara
14
TARA
It’s been five days since our trip to Russia, and I’ve done everything in my power to avoid being alone with Gavriil.
I’ve even bailed on lunch with Irina twice, claiming I’m buried in final edits for my dissertation.
It’s not a total lie—I am busy.
But that’s not the real reason I’m avoiding them.
My phone buzzes on my desk.
I glance down and smile.
Renfield: What are you doing for lunch?
Renfield is what I’ve listed Konstantin as in my contacts.
It’s not just a private joke—it’s protection.
Because I already know how judgy Irina or Gavriil would get if they found out I’ve become friends with Irina’s older brother’s fixer.
The right-hand man to the guy they’ve officially labeled The Enemy.
So yeah, if they ever saw me messaging Ruslan Dragunov’s second-in-command?
I can already hear the lectures.
He’s dangerous.
Yes.
I know.
So are pit bulls.
And just like them, if you treat one right, it might just become your best friend.
Still.
.
.
you don’t turn your back completely.
He’s spying on you.
He’s using you.
Also noted.
But I’m using him right back.
Because honestly?
It’s been kind of nice to have someone checking in.
Someone I can message in the middle of the day and who always answers.
My sister’s always working or out.
Just over a year ago, she was off gallivanting through Europe on some mission with a Bratva prince, chasing after our best friend Leigh.
Meanwhile, I work.
I come home.
I study.
Rinse and repeat.
Once they get what they want, he’ll disappear.
Yeah.
Probably.
Everyone does, eventually.
But right now?
He’s giving me the support I need, when everything else around me feels like it’s unraveling.
And the real kicker:
He’s not who you think he is.
Okay, sure.
But is anyone?
I just found out the people I’ve called my parents for twenty-six years might not even be my parents.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Am I Tara Craft.
.
.
or Lidiya Zorin?
Right now, Konstantin is exactly who I need him to be.
We’ve been talking constantly these last few days.
Two, three times a day.
He sends ridiculous cartoons, unhinged news stories, weirdly sweet animal videos.
I send him back worse ones.
We’re in a full-on meme war, and honestly?
It’s one of the few things keeping me sane.
Me: Heading home.
Taking a few days off.
Packing for L.
A.
I was offered a job there even before my PhD defense results were ready.
Renfield: Is that today?
I nearly forgot.
How are you getting there?
Me: Bus
Renfield: What time are you leaving?
I glance at the time on my wristwatch.
“Shit!” I curse aloud, heart lurching as I scramble up.
I start throwing things into my tote, hunting around for my car keys.
I pull open drawers, overturn piles of books.
Nothing.
I drop to my knees and start checking under my desk.
That’s when I see them.
A pair of shiny black shoes.
“Lose something?” Gavriil’s voice cuts through the moment.
I back out too quickly and bump my head on the edge of the desk.
“Fuck. Ow.”
As I stand, rubbing my head, he’s already holding my keyring up with a small shake of his finger.
“Where’d I leave them this time?”
“Refrigerator in the back room. Bartender found it while grabbing beers.”
“Of course.” I reach for the keys just as my phone buzzes again.
A message pops up from Renfield.
Renfield: Have you disappeared on me?
Shit.
I forgot to turn it face down onto the desk.
Gavriil glances down and catches the name.
“You're dating Dracula’s assistant now?” he asks, brow raised.
I snatch the phone off the desk. “College friend,” I lie smoothly. “You know the professor I used to joke was Darth Vader? We called his T.A. Renfield.”
“Yeah, I remember the Darth Vader professor.” Gavriil gives a knowing nod.
“The T.A. needs my help with his dissertation.”
“Tara, you’re already stretched thin. Isn’t this the fourth college friend you’ve helped in a space of two months?” Gavriil’s eyes fill with concern.
I shrug. “I’m the brainiac of the class. What can I say?”
“You always were,” he says softly.
I throw my purse over my shoulder and grab a stack of books. “I’ve found a new home for these. UCLA said they’ll take my old textbooks. They’ve got students constantly hunting for used ones.”
“Not surprising with the price of those things,” Gavriil replies, following me to the door. “I’m going to miss you when you leave us for good. You’ve been a good friend. And I’ll always love you, Tara.”
I pause, heart clenching.
“I know,” I whisper.
As he steps forward for our usual hug, I fumble and drop my keys again. “Fuck.” I bend, scoop them up, and glance at my watch.
“Fuck fuck. I’m going to miss the bus,” I hiss, rushing down the hallway as he calls out behind me, “Safe travels, Tara.”
Not until I’m in my car do I finally text Konstantin back.
Me: Sorry, got cornered by the boss and had to sprint to my car. I’m probably going to miss the bus.
Renfield: You didn’t tell me what time you were leaving.
Me: In forty-five minutes.
Renfield: Cutting it close, aren’t you?
Me: I just never seem to have enough hours in a day.
Renfield: Are you texting while driving?
Me: No. Red light.
Renfield: Okay, get home safe. I’ll shut up for now.
I smile as the light turns green. It’s the same light where I met the Russian who altered my entire life in one night, where Damien Romanov nearly flattened me. My chest tightens at the thought. Of all the nights to replay in my head, that one still burns the brightest. I can still feel his touch burn a delicious, sensual heat down my skin. The apex between my legs throbs, and I can't help but move my hips slightly to press against the seam of my jeans. Fuck! Now I’m hot and achy again, and there is only one person I know who can dull the ache. But I’m never going to see him again, so a cold shower it is when I get home.
Twenty minutes later, I’m flinging things into a duffel with no real organization. Clothes, chargers, makeup bag. I’ll deal with it when I get there. I check my purse again, making sure I have my wallet, my ID, my folder for UCLA, and just as I zip the bag shut, there’s a knock at the door.
“Not now,” I mutter, dragging my wheeled suitcase behind me.
“Molly, I love you, but I don’t have time for tea.”
I yank open the door.
And stare directly into a hard male chest clothed in a black cotton shirt.
A faint, clean cologne drifts off him, expensive and subtle.
My heart skips a beat.
“That’s a pity,” the familiar deep voice says.
“I enjoy our chats.”
My eyes travel up.
“Konstantin?”
He’s casually hot in jeans, boots, and a shirt that clings to his chest like it was custom-stitched there.
For the first time, I notice the tattoo curling over one bicep—a devil’s tail winding toward a pointed tip on his forearm.
“Holy shit,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“How tall are you?”
His brows lift, amused.
“Six-five.”
“Can you bend a little? I’m getting a crick in my neck just looking at you.”
He chuckles and reaches for my bag.
“Can I take this for you?”
“Wait.” I narrow my eyes.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Moscow.”
“I was.” His eyes darken slightly.
“I didn’t like the idea of you crammed on some bus to L.A., so I came to offer a more comfortable option.”
“You flew all the way from Moscow just to take me to Los Angeles?” I eye him suspiciously.
“I did.” He nods.
“But I got here yesterday and waited until now to surprise you.”
I blink.
I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
“Are you shitting me?”
He grins.
“That’s such a weird American phrase.”
So I repeat it in fluent Russian, just to mess with him.
“Ты издеваешься надо мной?”
Now his eyes widen.
“You speak Russian?”
“My parents insisted. You’re right. Are you shitting me doesn’t have the same ring to it in Russian.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees, and then gestures to the hallway.
“Ready?”
I nod, and I’m rushing toward the stairs when Konstantin calls.
“Are you leaving your door open?”
Fuck!
I stop and sigh.
Jesus, I’ve been even more forgetful than usual lately.
I turn and run back to the door, scratching in my purse to find my keys.
“Let me.” Konstantin takes them from me, his fingers brushing mine, and my heart flutters.
I shake it off putting it down to feeling quite horny lately—I’ve read it’s hormones.
So, I’m horny?
I shake the silliness from my head as I follow Konstantin down to his SUV.
I’m still reeling from the surprise of seeing him, and when we pull into a private airstrip just outside of Vegas, I’m bowled over.
“You’re flying me?”
“Only the best for the future astrophysics professor at UCLA.” He grins.
“I hope you don’t mind company for the trip?”
I feel my eyes mist as I shake my head, and my voice is a little wobbly as I say, “Not at all. You’re a welcome surprise.”
Onboard the sleek, luxurious jet, I gape at the interior before dropping into buttery-soft leather.
Konstantin pops a bottle from a cooler.
“I hope that’s not champagne,” I tease.
“You know I can’t drink alcohol right now.”
He holds up the label.
“One hundred percent fizzy apple juice. No alcohol.”
I laugh.
“Do you remember everything I say?”
“When a woman talks about fizzy apple juice more than three times, it’s worth remembering.”
The plane lifts as I sip my drink and study him.
I’ve heard the stories—about what he does for Irina’s brother, the rumors of violence, the time in jail.
But sitting here now, watching how he subtly monitors everything—how his body is always slightly turned toward the exits, how his hand occasionally brushes near his inner jacket where I’m guessing he keeps a weapon—he doesn’t scare me.
If anything, I feel safer with him than I have in weeks and with anyone else.
“Are my horns showing?” he asks with a teasing smile.
“You’re not hiding them very well.”
We both laugh.
As the flight gets underway, I glance around the aircraft.
“Is this your boss's jet?”
“You mean Ruslan?” Konstantin looks at me, and I nod. “No. It belongs to the Romanov Corporation. My father’s younger brother.” His eyes darken. “He passed away several years ago, and now my sister and I are the sole heirs as my uncle never married or had children.”
“So you're independently wealthy from Ruslan?”
“We were, before we inherited my uncle's fortune,” Konstantin tells me.
“Then why do you do what you do?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I suffered a loss and then found myself being blamed for a crime I didn’t commit,” Konstantin’s eyes darken and I suck in my breath as I see it. The anger. The danger that lurks inside him, but even seeing that, I’m at ease with him. Maybe I’m just projecting or needing someone to cling to and he is funny, dark, dangerous and fucking sexy as hell. He’s exciting. Something I have lacked in my life.
“Oh no.” My heart squeezes for him.
“Ruslan was the only one who believed in me,” Konstantin says, his voice dropping. “He fought to get me acquitted, something my own father, also an attorney, did not do.” He exhales slowly. “By the time I got out of jail my reputation was fucked. The career I had started carving out for myself was gone.” He gives me a tight, bitter smile. “You can’t become a weapons engineer with a criminal record.”
“You were going to be a weapons engineer?”
Konstantin nods. “Yeah, I was already studying and in the Marines.”
“I’m sorry.” I can’t imagine working so hard toward something and then having it all ripped away like that.
“Ruslan gave me a job. Something to focus on,” Konstantin continues. “He’s not just my best friend. He’s my brother.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “Well, technically, Leigh is my sister's best friend. They’ve known each other since they were three. But she’s like another sister to me.”
“You’re a lot like Irina,” Konstantin surprises me by saying. “You have acquaintances but a handful of people in your inner circle.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”
“You have real friends.” Konstantin's eyes hold mine. “Those are more valuable and worth a million false ones.”
It’s not long until the plane begins its descent. I feel my stomach drop, and my nerves start to tense.
But then Konstantin shifts and distracts me as he reaches into his jacket pocket and sits beside me.
“I nearly forgot,” he says. “I have a surprise.”
“Another one?” My pulse jumps. My eyes narrow suspiciously as I tease, “You’re not about to propose, are you?”
He snorts. “Not today.”
He holds out a folded paper.
I take it. And the breath whooshes out of me as my eyes take in the full birth certificate of Lidiya Zorin.
Lidiya Zorin
Born: June 19, 1998
Father: Leonid Zorin
Mother: [Redacted]
I stare at the redacted line like it’s going to erase itself. “Why is the mother’s name hidden?”
“I’m looking into it,” he says quietly. “There are only a few reasons it would be blacked out. None of them simple.”
I trace the date of birth. My birthday. And then my eyes land on the father’s birth date—same as my father, Sol Craft’s.
“Konstantin…” I whisper, my eyes meeting his. “It’s the same date as my father, Sol’s.”
“Which means,” Konstantin says, “you may not be who you think you are.”
The plane touches down before I realize it, and I whip my head toward him. “You timed that so I wouldn’t get anxious about the landing.”
“Of course I did.” He grins smugly.
“Asshole.” But I’m smiling as I say it.
Then, on impulse, I hug him without thinking. A full-body wrap of my arms around his neck. “Thank you. For everything.”
His arms come around me slowly, then hold me tight. “You deserve answers, Tara. I’ll help you find them, I promise.”
The SUV is already waiting when we climb off the plane. When we pull up in front of one of L.A.'s swankiest hotels, my jaw drops.
“I can’t stay here. I can’t afford this place.”
“It’s on the house.”
“You own this, don’t you?”
“Inherited it. My uncle was the real estate type.”
Inside, the staff greets him like he’s royalty. The penthouse is pristine and tasteful. He shows me to a suite across from his.
“Pick any room but mine. That one’s off limits,” he jokes, pointing to the door on the left.
“How many bedrooms are there?” I eye the huge apartment that could swallow mine three or four times over.
“Five.” He shrugs. “I’m going to jump in the shower and then drop you at your interview and go to a coffee shop while I wait.”
Then it hits me in the chest. The fear! Holy fuck I’m here! I am in Los Angeles, and I am about to go for my dream job interview at UCLA! I reach out and grab his arm.
“Will you come with me?” Tumbles from my lips before I can stop it. “Obviously not into the interview but… If you don’t mind waiting in the waiting area…”
A warm smile splits his face, and his large hand covers mine, sending delicious shivers of desire through me.
“Of course,” Konstantin says, then leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I told you. I’m here for you, Tara.”
My heart jumps, and I have to stop the urge to reach my arms around his neck and kiss him.
“We’d better hurry or you’re going to be late for an interview the dean has already rescheduled to an earlier one for you,” Konstantin points out.
After a shower, I dress in flowing black pants, a cream blouse, and my best three-inch heels. Hair slicked into a chignon. Professional as hell. When I step out, Konstantin is waiting in a crisp dark suit, looking like a Bond villain I wouldn't mind seducing, and his sexy cologne is almost hypnotic.
“You look... stunning,” he says, his gaze dragging down, slow and deliberate.
“I liked you better in jeans,” I tease, trying not to squirm under the heat in his eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says in a low, gravelly voice filled with sinful promise. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and we head out.
On the ride over, we avoid anything heavy—no Russia, no secrets, no family drama. He keeps it light, pointing out random landmarks, throwing out funny observations, making me laugh until the tight ball of nerves in my stomach starts to loosen.
When we get to UCLA, he walks me in like he's my personal security detail. Just before I’m called in, his hand brushes against mine—casual, but it sparks a bolt of warmth through me.
“You’ve got this,” he says, eyes steady on mine.
“The job’s already yours. They just don’t know it yet.”
I nod, trying to hold on to that confidence as I step through the door.
But as I take my seat for the interview, it hits me like a freight train—something else is waking up inside me.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
I’m crushing on Konstantin.
And it’s the worst possible time to realize it.