Bound By Sin (Empire of Blood & Heirs #1)

Chapter 1

KAZIMIR

Stepan's been leaning on the same wall for forty minutes, and I can tell by the way he keeps rolling his jaw that he's about two minutes from complaining, probably about food again.

We've been out here for hours as the ballroom filled up and now while Roman does his thing on the other side.

These things are always so fucking boring, and this year, he's locked down security so tightly, we haven't even had any action at all.

"I'm starving," Stepan grumbles, and I chuckle.

There it is, the obligatory complaint about food. The man eats more than three fighters combined. When his metabolism slows down, he's gonna regret not using more self-control.

"You ate an hour ago."

"Yeah, so? That was an hour ago." He tugs at the collar of his shirt like the fabric personally offends him as he scowls at me. His dark hair is pushed back, but a piece of it keeps falling over his forehead and he keeps shoving it away. "How much longer is this?"

"You want me to go in there and tell Roman to wrap it up because your stomach's growling?" I lift an eyebrow and turn to stare up at the row of plaques hanging on the wall beside me.

"Would you?" he jokes, offering a wry smirk. For an enforcer, he has a good sense of humor, though most of the time, it's dark because he can just as easily slit a throat as he can crack a joke.

"No," I grumble, rolling my eyes. Nights like this go faster when he acts half his age like this, but sometimes it gets annoying.

He grins, wide and stupid, and pushes off the wall to pace a short loop across the floor.

Stepan in a suit is Stepan in a cage—he's too broad through the chest and shoulders for anything with a collar, and he moves like a dog in a sweater, restless discomfort and wounded dignity.

I've told him three times to stop pulling at his cuffs and he keeps doing it.

He really belongs in a ring or in a nice leather jacket with a piece tucked into his waistband.

My earpiece clicks, reminding me that my uncle is watching us through the security feeds, probably entertained by how many times Stepan annoys me. I swear, they put us two together just for the free laughs.

"You two alive out there?" Timur sounds bored like the rest of us. He's sitting in some control room in front of monitors watching what's going on from every angle while we manage flow in and out of the building.

"Barely," I say, pressing two fingers to my ear. "Stepan's dying of starvation. Might lose him soon."

"Tragic. I'll send flowers." There's a pause, then, "East lot's clear, service entrance is locked, nothing on any of the feeds. This is the most boring night of my life and I've sat through two of Roman's birthday dinners."

Stepan snorts. He can hear everything through his own earpiece, and Timur knows it, which is half the reason Timur says what he says.

"Don't get him started, Tim. You know once he starts laughing, he'll piss himself, and I'm not on puddle duty tonight." That makes Timur laugh harder, but Stepan glares at me and snaps something back I don't quite catch over the sound of Timur's laughter.

I let the banter settle and go back to watching the hall.

Tonight matters beyond the handshakes and the donation envelopes.

We've been working with the police to put together a case against Vera Koval-Radin, and Roman needs every official and board member in that room to leave tonight feeling good about us.

Nothing can go sideways tonight—that's the job.

If this goes well, it means a potential for a new alliance which would expand our business to new territory and product.

Gun smuggling has never been our thing, but if Roman gets what he wants, he'll have a new wife and an entire new enterprise.

It'll open doors for us, but we aren't stupid.

We know it'll cause new enemies to rise.

Which is why I'm here, pacing an empty hallway, watching to make sure that doesn’t happen tonight.

When the ballroom door swings open and a woman stumbles out, Stepan and I snap our attention to her.

She rushes on unsteady legs as one hand grips a small clutch against her hip.

The other is pressed flat to the front of her dark green dress, fingers spread wide over a stain that's already soaked through from her chest to her hip on one side.

Dark brown hair swings past her shoulders, but her head is down.

She gets maybe five steps before the heel of her left shoe catches the lip where the ballroom exit carpet gives way to marble.

A crisp snap rends the air as she stumbles forward.

The clutch goes skittering across the floor and she pitches to the left, catching herself against the wall with her palm flat on a brass donor plaque.

The broken heel dangles from her shoe as she swears and leans against the wall.

I glance at Stepan who's already watching me with one lifted eyebrow. Not exactly a shootout, which would be way more exciting, but at least it's something.

"I got it," I tell him. "Stay on the doors."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I mumble, not thrilled with playing babysitter for a drunk woman, but a job's a job. If she poses a risk and Roman knows we stood there watching her waddle off toward the bathroom alone, I'll never hear the end of it. So I strut over to her and she looks up at me.

She's crouching when I reach her, scooping up her clutch, and from this close, I can see the stain clearly—red wine, a lot of it, soaked into the green fabric from her tits downward.

I stop a couple of meters away and keep my voice easy. For all I know, she's just a klutz. "You alright?"

She looks up, and the first thing I register is her eyes. They're a clear, bright green beneath dark lashes and there's a flush burning across her cheekbones. She's gorgeous, albeit maybe a bit young, but stunning. It takes me a moment to register that I'm running security, not picking up a woman.

"I'm sorry," she mutters as she slowly rises. "I spilled my drink during the speech, my heel's broken, and I'm covered in wine in a hallway. So, really, everything's going great."

I like her immediately. She's got sass and attitude, besides the good looks. I glance up the hall at Stepan who is making kissing faces at me. How immature. I scowl at him and then turn back to her, pulling my handkerchief from the inside pocket of my jacket.

She eyes it for a second—eyes me for a second—and then takes it, pressing it flat against the stain with her whole palm. The blush remains on her cheeks, now dusting her lips in a flush of color too, which only serves to make her more attractive.

"This is mortifying," she says, more to herself than to me, and a short laugh escapes through her teeth like she wants to scream from embarrassment. "I came here to support the hospital and I've turned myself into a disaster before the first course."

"For what it's worth, the dress'll survive." I offer her my hand as I nod at a bench she could sit on. "Green's dark enough that the wine won't show once it dries."

"You're optimistic." She smiles at me, and if I weren't a trained professional, it would take my breath away.

"I'm right, though."

I watch her eyes move across my face, my shoulders, down to my hands where the scarred knuckles show past my cuffs.

It's a quick read—she's sizing me up and deciding whether I'm safe, all in about two seconds.

Someone has taught her to protect herself, or maybe she's been hurt. Either way, I respect it.

"The shoe, on the other hand," I say, glancing at the broken heel hanging at a ruined angle from her left foot. "The shoe's done."

"The shoe was my favorite." She stumbles a few steps before plopping on the wooden slatted bench, and I stand beside her on the verge of laughter.

"Then I'm sorry for your loss."

That gets a real laugh out of her, and it changes her whole face. The tension breaks around her mouth and her eyes crinkle at the corners. It sinks into my chest and warms me, drawing me in like a siren's song.

She undoes the strap of the shoe and pulls it off, setting it beside her on the bench, and continues working the handkerchief into the moisture, pulling more red out of the green fabric as she mutters to herself.

"I'm an idiot. I can't believe this." I don't even know her name, but I know I want to know it.

"You don't look like a disaster, by the way," I tell her, and I mean it. She's being so hard on herself when all I see is a sexy goddess. "The dress is right on you. The color."

The flush on her cheeks spreads down her throat as she blinks, and I watch her swallow.

"You're being nice because I'm obviously at rock bottom for the evening."

"I have no reason not to be honest with you."

She folds the napkin and presses it against the stain one more time, then holds it out. I take it back and hold on to it, not wanting the wine to seep into my dress shirt and stain it. White isn't as forgiving as hunter green.

"I feel ridiculous," she says, quieter, looking down at the broken shoe. "This night was supposed to make me feel like a queen, and I am definitely no Cinderella."

"So let me take you to dinner." I haven't thought it through as I say it, but the longer I talk, the more I know I want it.

Screw Stepan and his kissy faces. "Flat floors.

No speeches. No wine. You can prove to me you're not a klutz and I can prove to you that this isn't your worst night—it's the night you met me. "

Her eyebrows go up and her mouth twitches, and I can see her deciding whether that line was arrogant or charming. I stand confidently, holding that soggy handkerchief, banking on charming.

"I don't know your name," she says.

"Kazimir," I tell her, and she rises, taking my hand as I offer it to help her.

"Well, Kazimir, I'm Zora Gorin. It's very nice to meet you."

I let the name sit in my thoughts for a second and hypnotize me, because that's what she's doing. She's got me hook, line, and sinker, and I don’t mind one bit. This striking woman could come home with me tonight and I'd enjoy every second of it.

"Is that a yes, Zora?"

"That's a yes."

I'm reaching for my phone to get her number when a man rounds the corner near the stairwell. His eyes find Zora first and then cut to me, and I can see him clock the distance between us and not care for it. A scowl darkens his face as he barks, "Zora. We're leaving."

There is no warmth or compassion in his tone, and I get the feeling this man means something to her. But there's no ring on her finger, and I think I catch a hint of family resemblance which she explains.

She glances back at me, and I catch the flash of regret cross her face before she can smooth it away. "My brother," she says quietly, only for my ears.

"I still need to reach you."

She opens the clutch, pulls out a slim card, and presses it into my palm. Her hand lingers against mine for a beat as she says, "Goodnight, Kazimir."

She turns and walks toward her brother, limping with one shoe missing, and I watch her go—the line of her back, the sway of her dark hair against her shoulders—until she rounds the corner and she's gone.

I look down at the card, run my thumb across the raised letters. Then I slide it into my breast pock before I pick up the shoe and turn down the hall.

Stepan's staring at me with a giddy smirk on his face, arms crossed. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

"Don't," I say.

"I didn't say a thing."

"You're about to," I grumble as I toss the broken shoe into the trash bin.

He faces the doors again, but the grin stays put and he can't help himself. "A woman's gonna make you soft, Kaz. I'm calling it now."

"Get back to work," I grumble, watching taillights zip past the glass doors that open to the parking lot. Zora… What a nice name.

My earpiece clicks and I realize Timur has probably been listening to everything. "Did Stepan say something about a woman?" he asks before chuckling, but I've already had enough.

I reach up and turn the comms off.

These jokers get on my last nerve, but tonight wasn't a total waste. I got a girl's number and I intend to use it.