Ours (The Bratva Kings Duet #1)

Chapter 1

Dubai

Kara Lennox

I felt like a lie wrapped in lace.

The bar I was sitting at gleamed with gold. Every inch of it screamed of wealth. I’d been here before, in places like this. They all had that same perfume of ambition and musk, and seriously deep pockets that thought they could buy the world and call it their own.

I sat at the marble gold-lined bar, legs crossed, the hem of my red and black Dolce and Gabbana dress riding up my thigh a little bit.

The Louboutins on my feet pinched slightly.

My wristlet rested lightly in my lap. It was Louis Vuitton, black, discreet.

My entire outfit was a weapon, and I wielded it like one.

The champagne in front of me had gone warm. I wasn’t drinking it. I was too busy watching my target.

His name was Roman Markov.

He sat in a booth across the room surrounded by men who laughed too loudly, their Rolexes glinting conspicuously under the bar lights. Roman didn’t laugh with them. He was the kind of man who let people orbit him, basking in his gravity until they forgot they were only there because he allowed it.

He was a loose cannon, ARCHEON had said.

The file had also used phrases like volatile charm and unreliable loyalties.

I called him interesting.

I’d been watching him for seven minutes when his eyes finally found mine. They were sardonically amused. Calculating. Not even the slightest bit startled.

Like he’d been watching me watch him the whole time.

I smiled, stood up, and turned toward him. The soft click of my heels against the marble floor sounded like a countdown. Heads turned as I passed, but none of them mattered. They weren’t who I was here for.

He waited until I was close before he spoke, his accent a velvety thread of Moscow. “You’ve been watching me,” he said. “Either you’re a journalist or you’re trouble. From the look of you, I’m thinking trouble.”

I tilted my head, letting a few strands of my dark auburn hair fall against my cheek. “I’m offended,” I murmured. “You left out secret admirer.”

His mouth curved. “Ah. The most dangerous kind of watcher.”

“Only if you’re worth admiring.”

He gestured to the seat across from him, and I slid in. The scent of his cologne—smoky and expensive—wafted through the air between us. He watched me like a man assessing an object he might want to buy, cocking his head as his gaze slid over me.

“You think I am?” he asked.

“I think you want to be,” I said. “But that’s not the same thing.”

He laughed, the sound quietly genuine. His eyes never left mine. “And what’s your name, pretty philosopher in red?”

“Kara,” I said, sipping the warm champagne at last. “With a K.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching like he didn’t want them to but couldn’t help it. “Kara-with-a-K,” he repeated. “I am Roman. With an R.” He was showing teeth now. “Now, tell me… Are you here to sell me something, steal from me, or save me from myself?”

I let the glass rest against my lower lip, watching the bubbles climb up to the surface. “Would it ruin the fun if I said yes?”

His brow lifted slightly. That pause—barely half a breath—was enough. I saw it, a crack in his armor, small but there.

Got you.

He lifted his glass in a lazy toast. “To ruin, then.”

“Don’t get sentimental,” I said softly, clinking mine against his. “I didn’t bring flowers.”

“You lead with humor,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Most women here lead with ambition.”

“Maybe I’m ambitious about humor.”

“Or maybe you’re hiding behind it.”

I smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

He leaned back, studying me like a puzzle he didn’t mind taking his time with. “So, Kara-with-a-K, what’s your story? I don’t recognize you from the usual circles.”

“I make a point of staying out of those kinds of circles. They just keep going around and around,” I said, twirling my finger through my hair as the words left my mouth.

“Mmm. I like that answer.”

“Then I’m in the right place.”

A faint laugh escaped him, the kind that came from deep inside, the kind that showed real amusement. “You talk like a woman who’s used to getting what she wants.”

“When I’ve decided it’s worth the effort, yes.”

He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, his gaze entirely focused on me. “And am I?”

I let my lips part slightly, my voice hardly a whisper between us. “Ask me tomorrow.”

His smile widened knowingly. He reached for the bottle and poured more champagne into my glass without breaking eye contact with me.

Then his hand brushed mine for the briefest moment—intentional, feather-light, and absolutely more electric than I could have ever anticipated.

The kind of touch that said I want you without uttering a single word.

“What brings you to Dubai, Kara?” he asked.

“Business,” I said.

“What kind?”

“The kind that pays for pretty dresses like this.”

His gaze dipped, just long enough to trace the line of lace over my body before returning to my face. “Then I should invest.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” I said.

It wasn’t arrogance. Just fact.

He laughed again, but there was a flicker of a challenge and heat behind it this time. “You have an interesting version of flirtation.”

“I have an interesting version of most everything.”

The music changed to a quieter, more rhythmic song. I took another sip of champagne and leaned forward, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine on my skin. “You want to know a secret, Roman?”

“Always.”

“I think you like pretending to be dangerous more than actually being dangerous.”

His expression didn’t change, but I saw the brief tension in his jaw, the smallest flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Maybe…” he began his reply gradually. “Pretending is safer.”

“For whom?”

His gaze dropped to my lips. “That depends on who you ask.”

I smiled, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t calculated. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

He tilted his glass toward me again. “To getting along.”

I met his toast, the crystal chime soft and sweet. Then for a moment—just a heartbeat—I forgot why I was really there.

Roman’s gaze caught mine over the rim of his glass, hooded and heavy with heat.

The air between us shifted, less conversation now, more electricity, like the moment before a storm when everything stills.

He set his drink down, his fingertips resting on the glass as if the gesture itself was calculated.

“So tell me, Kara-with-a-K,” he murmured, “what does a woman like you want out of a night like this?”

I leaned in, crossing one leg over the other, the lace of my dress whispering against my skin. “Maybe I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “What about you?”

He smiled faintly. “I think I just did.”

My pulse stuttered in my throat. I told myself it was strategy, that I was only reading him, studying his tone, mapping the rhythm of his control, that this was just a job, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.

“Careful,” I said lightly. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His fingers brushed the stem of his glass, not looking away. “You walk like someone who doesn’t wait for permission. You smile like you’re used to getting what you want, and you watch people the way men like me watch the stock markets.”

“That sounds a lot like flattery.”

“It’s simply a little bit of analysis.”

I laughed quietly. “Is that what you do for fun? Analyze women in bars?”

“No,” he said. “Usually, I’m the one being analyzed. Tonight’s a pleasant change.”

I tilted my head, studying him openly now. “You handle being watched very well,” I said.

He smiled at that, his eyes twinkling just the slightest bit. “Comes with practice.”

“I imagine you get a lot of it.”

“Not from anyone worth my time,” he replied. Then more softly, “Until now.”

The words hit me harder than they should have. He was too smooth, too good at this, and I was supposed to be better than to fall for it. And yet I stayed seated, my body leaning slightly toward him as if I was actually interested.

He reached for the bottle and topped off both our glasses. “Tell me something true,” he said.

“Truth is overrated.”

“Humor me.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “All right. I like control.”

His brows lifted just slightly. “In everything?”

“Almost everything,” I answered smoothly. “Sometimes, though, it’s more interesting to give it away.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “That,” he declared, “was a very risky thing to admit.”

“I like risky.”

He leaned forward again, voice dropping to a murmur. “Then we understand each other.”

The music changed again, this time to a slower song. He stood, offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance with strangers.”

“Then get to know me.”

I hesitated just long enough to make him wait before I slid my hand into his.

His palm was warm, his touch igniting a fire beneath my skin.

He drew me close, one hand at the small of my back, the other holding mine loosely.

The rhythm was lazy, the kind meant for late nights and whispered confessions.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I said.

“I’ve earned the right to be.”

“Confidence or arrogance?”

“They’re the same currency,” he said, his breath brushing my ear. “Depends how you spend it.”

I laughed quietly, trying not to show how much the sound of his voice affected me.

The scent of his cologne was a mix of smoke and citrus, expensive and unapologetic.

He moved with the kind of confidence that came from always being the most powerful person in the room and maybe, for tonight, I didn’t mind letting him think he still was.

When the song ended, he didn’t release me right away. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“To my place. It’s quieter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a man who likes quiet.”

“When the company is right, quiet is too.”

He was testing me, seeing if I’d flinch. I didn’t. Instead, I smiled like I was still deciding.

“And where, exactly, is your place?”

“The Eclipse Tower,” he answered. “Top floor.”