1. Wren #2
"Jesus," I mutter, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart's hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break out. "You scared me."
"Good reflexes, though." He leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, fingers almost—almost—grazing my shoulder. He grins at me, all easy charm and sharp edges underneath. "You've been sitting here by yourself all night. That's no fun."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're at a funeral."
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound bubbling up despite everything. "It kind of feels like one."
"Right?" He gestures around the room with his free hand, the movement lazy but his eyes sharp, cataloging. "This is supposed to be a party. Nobody told these people."
I relax a little, some of the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. The warmth of him beside me is distracting in the best and worst way. "What's this called?" I point to one of the dishes on my plate, desperate for something normal to focus on.
"Pelmeni. It's like dumplings, but better." He leans in closer, and I catch another whiff of that cologne. My thighs press together under the table without my permission. "Try the one with the sour cream."
I do, and he's right. It's delicious, the dumpling bursting with savory meat and the sour cream cutting through it perfectly. "Okay, that's amazing. What about this one?"
"Blini. Think crepes, but Russian. You can put pretty much anything on them." He reaches over and points to another dish, his arm brushing mine. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with temperature. "That one's pirozhki. Stuffed buns. Sweet or savory, depending."
"You really know your food."
"I know a lot of things." His grin widens, and there's something in his eyes—dark and amused and intent—that makes my stomach flutter and my skin prickle with awareness.
I fidget with the edge of my napkin, twisting the fabric between damp fingers. "Are you trying to flirt with me? You do know I'm your stepsister, right?"
"I've never really been good at following rules." He shifts closer, and now his thigh is definitely pressed against mine, warm and solid through the thin silk. "Besides, we're not related by blood. None of us are."
The heat creeping up my neck spreads to my cheeks, my ears, everywhere. My dress suddenly feels too tight. "That's?—"
"True?" He leans in a little closer, his breath ghosting over my ear, and I have to bite back a whimper. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the vodka on his breath mixing with that damn cologne. "Come on. You're telling me you didn't notice?"
I blink, my brain short-circuiting. Between my legs, there's a pulse of heat that makes me press my thighs together harder. "Notice what?"
"The way you looked at us outside the church." His voice drops lower, almost a murmur, intimate and dangerous. "The way you're looking at me right now."
My mouth goes dry. My pulse is thrumming in my throat, between my legs, everywhere. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar."
I should be offended. I should get up and walk away.
Instead, I stay rooted to my seat, heart hammering, face burning, thighs squeezed together like that'll somehow hide what he's doing to me.
Maxim just smiles—slow and knowing—like he can see right through me. Like he knows exactly what he's doing.
"You're blushing," he says, his voice dropping even lower, rougher. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. "That's cute."
I fidget with my napkin again, twisting it between my fingers hard enough that the fabric digs into my palms. "You're terrible."
"I know." He says it like a promise.
The music shifts, something slower, something that sounds like a prelude to something else entirely.
I force myself to look away from him, my pulse racing so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Sweat prickles at the nape of my neck. I can't tell if it's nerves or something else entirely—something hotter, needier, infinitely more dangerous.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I blurt out, standing so fast I almost knock over my chair. The sudden movement puts distance between us and I can finally breathe again, even if the air still feels too thick.
Maxim's grin doesn't falter. He leans back in his seat, looking up at me with those dark, amused eyes. "Want me to come with you?"
Heat floods my entire body—face, chest, lower. The suggestion in his voice is unmistakable. "No. Thank you."
I don't look back as I walk away, but I can feel him watching me. Feel his gaze like a physical touch trailing down my spine, over my hips. My legs are unsteady in these heels, and I'm acutely aware of every step, every sway of my body, knowing he's still looking.
The bathroom is blissfully empty. I lock myself in a stall and press my hands to my burning cheeks, willing my heartbeat back to normal. The metal door is cool against my forehead when I lean into it, trying to ground myself.
This is insane. I'm insane. He's my stepbrother, for God's sake, and I'm acting like a teenager with her first crush. My pulse is still hammering, my skin still hot where his breath touched it, and I can't decide if I want to run back out there or hide in here forever.
I take a breath, then another, counting them like Mom taught me when I used to get anxious before exams. Finally, I step out to fix my makeup.
My lipstick's smudged—of course it is—and I dig through my purse for the tube, my fingers clumsy.
I reapply it carefully in the mirror, watching my hand shake just slightly as I trace the color over my bottom lip.
That's when I hear it.
Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
It sounds like fireworks at first, distant and muffled through the bathroom walls, but then someone screams—high and raw and terrified—and my stomach drops.
Gunshots.
I freeze, lipstick in hand, staring at my reflection. My face has gone white, green eyes too wide, and my brain screams at me to hide, to lock the door and wait it out, to stay small and safe and?—
Mom.
I shove the lipstick back in my purse and bolt for the door, my heels skidding on the tile. My hands fumble with the lock, and I can hear my own breathing, fast and shallow, too loud in my ears.
The hallway outside the bathroom is chaos. People running, shoving past each other, shouting in Russian and English and something else I don't recognize. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoes through the building, closer now, and I can smell something acrid—smoke, maybe, or gunpowder.
Sweat beads along my forehead and slides down my spine, cold and slick, and my heart is beating so hard I think it might crack a rib. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
I'm going to die. The thought slams into me, crystal clear and nauseating. I'm going to die in a cocktail dress in a hallway that smells like expensive perfume and blood.
I take two steps toward the ballroom, and then someone grabs me.
"Let go?—"
"Come with me."
Kostya. Relief floods through me so fast my knees almost give out, followed immediately by terror that he's here, that he's touching me, that this is real. His arm wraps around my waist, yanking me off my feet, and he shields me with his body as he moves, fast and efficient, toward a side exit.
I can barely breathe.
His chest is solid against my back, and I can feel the heat of him even through the panic clawing at my throat. My feet don't touch the ground. He's carrying me like I weigh nothing, and I want to protest, want to say I can run, but my voice won't work.
The door slams open, and we're outside. Cold air hits my face, sharp and startling after the stuffiness inside. A black SUV idles at the curb, rear door already open, engine rumbling, and Kostya shoves me inside without ceremony.
Lev and Maxim are already in the backseat.
I scramble to sit up, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the leather seat. My dress is twisted around my thighs, my hair's come loose, and I can still hear the gunfire—muffled now, but there. "Where's my mom?"
The door slams shut. The SUV peels away from the curb, tires screeching, and I'm thrown sideways into Lev's shoulder. He steadies me without a word, his hand on my arm, firm and impersonal.
"Where's my mom?" I repeat, louder this time, my voice cracking. My chest is tight, my throat raw, and I can't get enough air. I can still smell the smoke. I can still hear the screaming.
Lev doesn't look at me. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed somewhere out the window. "She's safe."
The relief is so sharp it hurts. I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe through it. Safe. She's safe. "With the pakhan?"
Kostya turns in the front seat, his jaw tight, his eyes flat and hard and completely unreadable.
"He's dead."
The world tilts. My stomach drops so hard I think I might throw up, right here in the backseat between Lev and Maxim. Dead. The pakhan is dead, and Mom married him three hours ago, and?—
Oh my god. What has Mom gotten us into?