21. Sabina
21
Sabina
The New Year’s Eve gala is an explosion of elegance, the kind of event that epitomizes the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas. The ballroom itself is a masterpiece, its vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate gold filigree, illuminated by enormous chandeliers dripping with prisms of light. The polished marble floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the glittering decadence above, while guests in couture gowns and bespoke tuxedos move like a constellation of stars come to life. Tables draped in ivory linens are scattered around the perimeter, each centerpiece a sculpted arrangement of fresh white roses, deep red calla lilies, and glittering gold accents. The air smells of champagne, expensive cologne, and the faint sweetness of the holiday season.
Along one side of the room, a massive ice sculpture of a cat, its eyes gleaming with inset crystals, stands surrounded by candlelight, a nod to the evening’s cause. Nearby, a string quartet plays beneath a gilded arch, their music floating through the room like an enchanted spell. Waiters glide between the clusters of guests, offering trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres: miniature tartlets, caviar-topped blinis, and golden spoons of chilled gazpacho. There’s a palpable energy in the room—a heady mix of money, power, and carefully curated decadence.
I stand near the edge of the room with Nadia, who sips her champagne with the practiced air of someone unimpressed by the extravagance around her. She looks beautiful, her long platinum hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her deep brown eyes accented by smoky, dark eyeshadow and smudgy black eyeliner. Tonight, instead of her usual nude lip, she’s opted for a sexy, glossy red. She’s petite but carries herself with a confidence that makes her seem taller. Her dress is a shimmering slate gray, cinched at the waist and paired with black platform shoes. Somehow, the unexpected combination works…grunge meets elegance with a confidence only Nadia can pull off.
“You hate this, don’t you?” I tease, watching her scan the crowd.
“I don’t hate it,” she replies, her lips quirking into a smirk. “I’m just not built for…whatever this is. All the shiny, perfect people with their shiny, perfect lives.”
“It’s a charity gala,” I point out. “We’re raising money for the shelter.”
“I know.” She glances toward the stage, where the projection screen shows a slideshow of kittens, puppies, and even a turtle looking for homes. “It’s adorable.”
“If they don’t hit their goal tonight, I’ll write a check myself,” I tell her.
“How are you doing?” Nadia asks me, her gaze turning sharp, probing. She knows me too well not to notice that something isn’t quite right.
“Fine,” I tell her, swallowing down the bubbly in one gulp.
Even to me, it sounds like a lie.
“Really?”
“Really. I’m fine. Peachy keen. You? Having fun? Being…” I sweep an arm toward the banquet hall filled with hundreds of people in black tie. “A sexy social butterfly?”
“As little as humanly possible,” she says. “You know I’m more of a sexy wallflower. I like to watch.”
This is good. I need a fresh distraction and maybe playing Cupid might help.
“Anyone in particular?” I raise a brow. I’d love to hear some news about my best friend’s love life. “Remember, what happens in Vegas…”
“Stays in Vegas,” she finishes with a laugh.
“No. Actually, it’s probably streamed live on social media, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun while you’re here.”
“Trust me, I’m having fun, and I will for the next two days before I head back to…”
Nadia trails off as she watches my brother Dante pass by. Of all my brothers, he’s the one who would much prefer to be in a leather jacket, t-shirt, and worn jeans.
But he didn’t determine the dress code tonight. I did.
Nadia watches Dante for a bit too long and he notices. He nods at her, at me, and then carries on. She sighs with appreciation.
“Your brothers are so fucking hot,” she says to me while grabbing a fresh flute of champagne off a passing tray. “How do you manage?”
“I manage by not noticing,” I tell her, unable to repress my cringe. “And don’t be gross. They’re my brothers .”
“ Hot brothers,” she says again, her gaze still fixed on Dante’s backside.
“You seriously need to get laid,” I tell her.
She snorts. “Right back at you.”
I grimace, feeling guilty that I haven’t shared with her what happened with me and Nikolai. I didn’t tell her anything, actually, about my adventures after I left Roberto at the art gallery that night. As far as she knows, I went back to my hotel, and then went home on Monday.
Nadia’s known me long enough to know my family isn’t like other families, but she doesn’t know everything. It’s safer that way. For her , that is.
Her head swivels and she stares at the bar. Luca stands leaning against it. He’s effortlessly charming in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His dark eyes sweep the room, missing nothing, though they linger just a little too long on Nadia. She pretends not to notice, but the way her fingers tighten on the stem of her glass tells a different story.
Interesting.
“Luca’s not one of my hot brothers,” I tell her. “But if you want a formal introduction, let me know. He’s single, the last time I checked.”
Her cheeks redden. “No, I’m good.”
“If you say so.”
“Anyway,” Nadia says, clearing her throat, “I’m here for you, not the shiny people.”
“Thanks,” I say softly.
My fingertips skim over one of the gold cuffs on my wrists. My dress—a deep emerald green satin that clings to me in all the right places, the thigh-high slit revealing just enough skin to flirt with scandal—is perfectly accented by their rich glow.
I haven’t seen Nikolai since the night Cassio and Luca came for me. But he is a ghost haunting the edges of every thought.
Nadia nudges me, her gaze flicking to the stage. “They’re about to start. Go do your thing.”
I nod, grabbing my champagne flute as I weave through the crowd toward the podium. The microphone feels cold under my fingers as I adjust it, the spotlight bathing me in warmth. I take a deep breath, scanning the sea of faces, many familiar, some not.
“My family and I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” I begin. “As many of you know, this cause is close to my heart. Every dollar raised tonight will go to the shelter, helping animals like Charlie”—I gesture toward Nicole’s cat, who sits regally in her arms, his tiny party hat slightly askew—“find their forever homes.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd as an image of Charlie and his hat is projected on the massive screen behind me. I tell the story of how Nicole found Charlie on the streets, emaciated and scared, and how he’s now the undisputed king of their home. The slideshow shifts to photos of wide-eyed kittens and wagging tails, each image a plea wrapped in innocence. I encourage guests to visit the adjoining room, where some of the shelter’s animals are waiting to meet potential adopters.
The applause is warm and enthusiastic as I step off the stage. Nicole takes over, her enthusiasm and love for the animals carrying the energy forward. My job done, I head toward the bar for another glass of champagne, the adrenaline in my veins fading to something heavier.
And that’s when I feel it.
A shift in the air, like the atmosphere itself recognizes his presence before I do. My pulse quickens, and I turn instinctively, my gaze cutting through the crowd until I find him.
Nikolai is standing near the entrance, the soft glow of the chandeliers accenting his sharp cheekbones and the unruly dark strands curling at his temples. His tuxedo, midnight black and perfectly tailored, clings to his broad shoulders and lean frame like a second skin. The pale blue of his eyes is bright and stark against his dark lashes. His gaze locks on mine. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move, but the intensity in his expression steals the breath from my lungs. He’s polished but primal, a wolf in the clothing of kings, and for an instant, the rest of the room ceases to exist.
My fingers brush over the cuffs on my wrists. His gaze flicks down, catching the movement, and something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes—a momentary crack in his otherwise unreadable expression.
“Sabina.” The voice startles me, pulling me back to reality. Douglas Scott, all British charm and polished manners, steps into my line of sight. “You look ravishing tonight.”
I force a smile, though it feels brittle. “Douglas. It’s been a while.”
Before he can respond, I feel Nikolai’s presence behind me. His hand brushes the small of my back, and my breath catches. The touch is subtle, the claim unmistakable.
“She’s taken,” Nikolai says, his voice low and lethal.
Douglas blinks, his easy confidence faltering. “I—”
“Go.” Nikolai’s tone leaves no room for argument.
Douglas mutters something under his breath before retreating, disappearing into the crowd without another word.
Nikolai steps in front of me, his hand still lingering at my back, the heat of his touch searing through the silk of my gown.
“Are you—” I start to ask.
“We’ll talk,” he says, his thumb brushing over the cuff on my wrist. “But not here.”
His fingers curl around mine, firm and insistent, and then he leads me away from the crowd. My heart pounds as the noise of the gala fades behind us.
And for the first time since the night I left him at the cabin, I feel fully alive. Not just alive—seen, claimed, and impossibly whole.