36. Octavia
Who knew gambling could be so fun?
I sure as hell didn’t. When Kirill shoved a few hundred dollars into my palm and told me to pick a fighter, I had a whole epiphany about the male species. I even thought of the Roman Empire for the first time in my life. Two rounds of shots later, and I think I finally understand drinking, too!
The world spins a little as I lean against the outside of the warehouse, allowing the cool night air to blow through my hair.
Kirill and Maksim flank me on either side, passing a lit cigarette back and forth.
It would almost feel like a normal family moment—that is, if there weren’t twelve killjoy Bratva soldiers standing around us, sizing up every single person who passes through the entrance.
“Alright, I’ve gotta ask,” Kirill suddenly says, breaking up the peace. “You know what zlaya means, right?”
“Angry?”
Maksim laughs softly. “Evil, really.”
For a moment, my thoughts conjure a pair of pretty, blue eyes that I really wish were here. “Yeah. Not too surprising, given I nearly killed him with his own belt around the time he chose the nickname.”
Maksim laughs, leveling me an approving smile.
“Jesus Christ,” Kirill gasps. “Whatever happened to sweetheart, or honey-pie? Or hey, what about flirting without death threats, hm?”
“Not as fun,” Maksim pitches in. The cigarette burns brighter between his lips as he takes a hit.
I’ve never smoked before—there wasn’t time to pick up a habit that would require constant breaks during a rehearsal day.
Although after tonight, I’m starting to realize I’ve never done much of anything.
I hold my hand out, tapping my fingers together. “I wanna try.”
Maksim raises a brow.
“Don’t,” Kirill interrupts, the traitor. “Uncle Sasha will flay us.”
“He’ll never know, asshole.” I punch Kirill in the arm. “Besides, isn’t this what cousins are for? This is a prime family bonding moment you’re missing out on.”
With an unconvinced sigh, Maksim locks eyes with Kirill over my head before lifting the glowing stick to me. Success. A thrill sings through my veins as I wrap my lips around the tip and take a deep breath…
Which immediately sends me into a coughing fit that rips through my lungs. The jerks cackle in laughter beside me. Absolutely zero sympathy for my final moments.
“Oh God,” I heave, wiping a tear.
Kirill only laughs harder. “Shut the fuck up.”
“That is nasty,” I cry, spitting smoky saliva onto the pavement. My stomach threatens to flip, reminding me just how much alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. A phone rings. Maksim digs it free from his pocket, then he holds up a finger and walks away.
“And then there were two,” Kirill says, taking another hit from his nasty little death stick. Sadist. “If you throw up, I’m not holding your hair. I can’t handle watching people gag without starting myself.”
I stick out my tongue.
“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice calls out. Surprisingly, the guards let him through their stronghold. I realize why a second later. It’s the fighter, one of Dad’s guys. He had the first match of the night, which he won in an incredible show of might and blood. It was truly fascinating to watch.
“Your name’s Octavia, right? I’ve been assigned to your watch before.”
It takes a second to place him. He’s one of the faces in the group Dad sends along every shooting range outing with Nik, as well as the few times Vas and I have left the compound to go shopping or run errands.
He looks completely different during the day, in his dark clothes and stoic expression. Nothing like the half-naked, muscular man standing in front of me, bruises already beginning to bloom across his face from the fight.
“Yeah. Nice fight, by the way,” I respond with a smile. Kirill’s eyes dart between us with an annoying grin before leaning in to whisper in my ear.
“Daddy Vas is gonna lose it when he sees you flirting with the sexy cage fighter.”
“Don’t call him that, you creep,” I whisper back. “It’s fucking weird.”
“Oh. Not even a denial. Game recognizes game.” He flicks his hand. “Carry on, Cousin.”
I smack the back of his head. Clearly, I should’ve gone harder, because all he does is laugh and whip out his phone, as if trying to offer the semblance of privacy.
“Thanks,” the fighter responds with a crooked smile, politely ignoring the interaction. “It was a good night for me. I’m Dmitri, by the way.”
With moves like that, I bet every night’s a good night for you.
“What was your favorite part?” he asks.
I slump against the wall, letting the world twirl around me. I feel light and floaty when I finally remember to answer his question. “The hot card girls.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You know, the card girls who tell you what round you’re in. You guys should really give them a raise. The whole show would fall apart without them.”
Kirill’s snicker keens through the air as he types furiously on his phone.
“Huh. I’ll have to let the organizers know.”
“You do that,” I nod sleepily, but a chunk of my loose hair gets stuck between the bricks behind me. Ouch. I hiss in pain as I try to pull free.
“Whoa, here,” he says, stepping closer. “Let me help.”
The guy towers over me, hands grasping my hair and wrapping the loose ends around his knuckles. I don’t know when exactly the shift happens, but suddenly, I’m not having fun with my cousins outside a fight club anymore. That horrible grey invades, shrouding my sight in darkness.
It’s not Dmitri standing over me, wrapping my long hair around his fist. I start to shake.
Shit. Not here…
My lips purse for a breath that feels far too exposed.
I’m about to whisper a panicked plea when the hovering shadow dissipates.
Dmitri barely manages to flinch before the fist comes barreling into his face, rupturing his nose with a soft crack. I blink, jerked free from the memory with a shot of adrenaline.
“Dude, chill, he didn’t do anything!” Kirill helplessly pulls at Vasiliy’s arms, only to get thrown down to the ground, too.
Vas lands punch after punch to the man’s gushing face, blood spraying with each hit. It’s not like the way he fights with me in training. That calm, patient look is replaced with something feral. I lurch forward, reaching for his inked arm that’s already loading up his next hit.
He freezes as soon as I press my skin into his.
Then he rises, rushing to my side.
“You okay?” Blue eyes twinkle with genuine concern. My man, I hear whispered into the back of my drunken mind.
“Yeah,” I pant, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He’s so damn tall. Maybe I can hide in his arms and never have to come out again.
“It was just, you know, the hair thing.” There’s a certain freedom that comes from not having to explain any further.
To have someone who knows you so well, there’s not even a shadow of doubt or blame at the optics of a situation.
He turns, addressing the group of guards gathered around us. “Under no circumstances do any of you touch her hair. Understand?”
Every man in the group nods, including the fighter still climbing to his feet from the ground. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding his gushing nose.
Damn, I feel like I should take on his hospital bills. I wave the apology off, flashing a genuine smile. It’s not his fault that I’m fucked up.
“How was the interrogation?” I ask, swaying against Vas’ body without the wall’s support. The world goes topsy-turvy as I’m lifted into the air and held to a chest I know like the back of my hand.
I snort. The back of my hand.
Have I ever looked at the back of my hand?
“Successful,” he responds softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the corner of my lips.
The sensation chases away every last particle of the dark memory, transporting me to damp grass beneath my thighs and hot swipes of his tongue against mine.
I instantly want more, grabbing for the back of his head.
I practically growl when he pulls away, inspecting me with a frown.
“Did you smoke?”
Shit.
“No?”
His eyebrows lift. Then he flicks his tongue over my lips, tasting them. My core heats.
“I didn’t!”
“You’re not allowed to smoke,” he berates. “It’s bad for you.”
“I’m allowed to do whatever I want.”
He turns his head toward Kirill, who’s suspiciously quiet as he walks beside us. “Don’t give her a cigarette again.”
“Hey—”
“Yes, sir,” Kirill says with a salute. “By the way, Octavia was flirting with the hot—”
“No, she wasn’t,” Vas snaps before I can get in a single word. Kirill is such a crafty little bitch.
I sigh in defeat, overcome by sleepiness at the sway of each step. “It tasted awful, anyway.”