Chapter 4
KARINA
T wo days into our stay in the country, Papa finally tells me why we’ve come. I know better than to think he’s here to rest.
“I’ve invited a friend, the son of an old comrade. Dimitri Petrov, Anatoliy’s boy, now heads the Petrov bratva and?—”
“A tech entrepreneur. I know the name.” I keep my tone flat.
“His company launched Atheneum three years ago, the game in which players rescue rare books from marauding zombies. It’s insanely popular across Europe.
So what about him? Is he after my cybersecurity software?
Because I won’t sell my company, and I certainly won’t hand over the distribution rights.
” A little flare of excitement sparks in my chest.
“He’s coming for a social call, a visit to see if he likes the look of you. A man of his power and influence, at his age, is looking for a wife. It’s time to settle down and have an heir to carry on the name and the business.”
“Likes the look of me? Really, Papa,” I scoff. Of course, he hasn’t invited a tech impresario here to brag about my accomplishments; he’s just looking to show me off like a filly from his racing stable.
“Like it or not, you’re of an age to marry.
And since you take an interest in my business, I’m sure you’d like your son to inherit one day.
This match could merge our two organizations, creating a bratva more vast and powerful than Russia has ever seen, united through your marriage to Dimitri.
You’re welcome, daughter, for bringing such a fine man to inspect you.
You should be proud he’s making the trip. ”
“Yeah, that’s why I went to university,” I snap, “so I can brag to my friends that some rich crime lord drove all the way out to my dad’s house to check whether my teeth are straight and my tits are big enough.”
“That mouth, Christ Almighty,” he mutters, rolling his eyes heavenward. I stalk away from him.
“He’ll be here tonight,” he calls after me. “Dress for dinner.”
Oh, I’ll dress for dinner, all right.
I’m at my window when the car arrives, and from above I watch him step out. Powerfully built, dark hair shot through with silver at the temples, strong jaw, heavy shoulders, broad chest. He moves like he wears power as comfortably as a coat, flicking one finger for someone to open his door.
Awareness. That’s what this is. A tingle slides up my spine.
What would it feel like to be commanded by a man like that?
I shove the thought away. I don’t want a husband, and I sure as hell don’t want one who thinks he owns me.
I won’t vow obedience to anyone, least of all a big, brutal crime boss.
Yet from this distance, watching him unseen, I feel seized, caught in a grip I can’t name.
I should be getting ready, not lingering at the window like a stalker.
He looks up, as though he felt my stare.
He pauses, tips his head back, and those sharp, dark eyes miss nothing.
He sees me. I jolt, gripping the curtain, yet I don’t duck away.
Pinned by his gaze, heat rushes through me.
He’s caught me skulking at an upper window like a peeping girl.
It’s more than embarrassing, it’s exposing, as if he already has me figured out, which is ridiculous.
We haven’t even met. Still, his gaze feels like a hand at the small of my back, fingers trailing up my thigh.
He doesn’t look curious or surprised. He looks possessive.
I try to shake off the sense that he already owns me.
I slip into a silver Versace minidress with an asymmetrical cut, a single buckle at the shoulder and a plunge deep enough to flaunt plenty of cleavage.
If Mr.Petrov thinks he’s shopping for a demure Russian bride, he’s about to have his eyes blown out.
I twist my dark hair up and pin it, stepping into silver-capped Saint Laurent stilettos, and glide downstairs as cool as you please.
The long dining table glows with candlelight with Papa sitting at the head.
Then I see Dimitri Petrov. He rises when I enter, and my heart flips.
Air punches from my lungs as though I’ve fallen onto hard ground.
Those severe, dark eyes hold a secret fire. I nearly stumble.
It takes every ounce of willpower to walk to my seat at Papa’s right. A chill prickles over my arms beneath Dimitri’s stare. He says nothing, but just assesses me, waiting to see if I’ll giggle or squirm. I sip my wine and turn to Papa as though Dimitri isn’t there.
“Karina, this is Dimitri Petrov, head of the Petrov bratva,” my father says. “Dimitri, this is my only daughter, Katarina Sergeyevna Kozlova. She has an engineering degree, but I trust you won’t hold that against her.” He chuckles at his own joke, but Dimitri does not laugh at my expense.
“Karina,” he says, his voice low and caressing, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“I can assure you it’s all true. My father has never been one of those men who’s blind to the faults of his children.”
“Self-awareness is admirable,” he says slyly. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“Yes, though he keeps me out of the business, Papa is eager to have me married. I’m less delighted, but I know my duty. Out of respect for my father and the organization he built, I’m willing to consider it.”
“Despite having no inclination to marry?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Exactly. You can hardly claim you’re here out of unbridled passion for me,” I say dryly. “You’re here to get your hands on the syndicate, and I’m the side dish you didn’t order but can’t send back.”
A sharp laugh breaks from him, startling me. He claps Papa once on the back, and I glance over. Papa nods as if he’s in on the joke, probably that I’m too opinionated.
“I wouldn’t compare you to a wilted dish of cabbage.”
“That’s a start, then,” I say wryly. “If we’re setting the bar that low, I suppose I won’t compare you to that wretched herring-and-beet salad.”
“Karina—” my father protests.
“No, no, it’s fine, Sergei. She’s a spitfire.” He turns to me. “I’ve read about your software. Will you tell me about it?” He’s trying to be charming, and I don’t have patience for it.
“If you’ve read about it, I’m sure you know the essentials,” I say, dismissing him with a flick of my hand as the soup arrives.
I don’t have much of an appetite, especially when I can feel his eyes on me every time I look up. He and Papa talk about the countryside, about the hunting and fishing on the property.
“What is your opinion of daughters running a family business?” I ask suddenly.
“I have no daughters. When you give me one, we’ll discuss it,” he says smoothly. When you give me a daughter . The words send a shock through me. It isn’t altogether unpleasant, hearing him speak as if I already belong to him.
“It’s a philosophical question, Dimitri,” I reply once I collect myself.
“Please, call me Dima,” he says. “If we are to be acquainted, know that I don’t waste time on philosophy. I’m a man of action.”
“Even that is its own philosophy,” I say archly.
When I drag the tip of my tongue over my spoon, I meet his gaze and see hunger burning dark and wild.
Every muscle low in my belly clenches. My eyes stay locked on his as he strokes a single fingertip down the handle of the spoon beside his plate.
The slow, deliberate caress lands on me as surely as if he’d parted my thighs and traced that finger through slick heat.
Color floods my face; a flush climbs from my chest, and my breath quickens.
I bite my lower lip, then regret it. He’ll know exactly how he affects me.
But this is a game now. When he smooths his tie, I recognize the ploy to look unruffled beneath my wanton stare.
I hope it scorches him to the bone, the arrogant ass.
After dessert, Papa retires, leaving the two of us alone with our wine. I trace a fingertip along the gold rim of my glass, regarding Dimitri with as much boredom as I can fake.
“Stand up and let me see that dress,” he says, lounging back in his chair.
I oblige, smoothing the hem of my mini as I rise. I circle the table and stop beside his chair. He pushes it back and stands, towering over me.
“You’re very small,” he says thoughtfully. His eyes do more than flicker across my ample cleavage.
“I’m 5’1,” I tell him. “And you’re, what? 6’3?”
“6’4,” he corrects.
“Such a man, insisting on that extra inch,” I say.
He doesn’t laugh. His eyes darken, and he captures my arm. “I only wonder if you know any use for that mouth besides talking back.”
I laugh. “I could say the same about you.”
His dark gaze flares, and I feel my panties dampen from that look alone. He wants to put me in my place, I know it. And, right now, I might let him. Not that I’d promise him anything, least of all marriage, but I want to feel what happens when this taut, breathless tension finally snaps.
“I told you already, I’m not much for talking.”
“A man of action, you said,” I tease. I glance at the place where he grips my arm, the searing heat of his touch branding my bare skin.
He isn’t hurting me, not really, but his hold is firm, and slipping free wouldn’t be easy.
Meanwhile, I wouldn’t mind shimmying out of my silver dress right about now.
“I’m holding back the action out of respect until an agreement is reached.”
“What makes you think I’ll accept?”
“What makes you think I’ll offer?” he counters.
He stands so close I can smell his expensive, spicy cologne mix of clove, sandalwood, and something smoky.
I inhale deeply, dizzy from it. The breath lifts my breasts against the dress, and his eyes drop to the swell.
Satisfaction unfurls as I gain a point for me.
I’ve distracted him. He’s as affected as I am it seems. It’s a hollow triumph, but I’ll take it.
My heart stutters at his nearness. I wish I could play it cool and pretend I don’t feel a thing.
We’re adversaries, on this and on everything.
He’s willing to claim me as the price of securing my father’s business; a man like that will never be on my side.
I want independence and leadership of the bratva that should have been my birthright, not subordination to another man who thinks he knows best. Seething, I break eye contact and brush past him.
I rise on tiptoe in my stilettos to reach the good vodka.
My dress slides up over the curve of my ass as I stretch.
I teeter before my fingers close around the bottle and ease it off the shelf.
Victorious, I turn for a glass and find him there.
Bigger than life, all six-foot-four of him.
The weight of his shadow settles over me, unsettling.
“What?” I demand, shrugging off the hand he extends to steady me.
“If you fall and knock out your teeth, it’ll ruin the wedding pictures,” he says slyly.
He’s so maddening that, for a second, I want to hurl the heavy bottle across the room just to rattle him.
But it’s the really good stuff, and I fought too hard to snag it.
I grab a glass, pour a generous measure, set the bottle down, and nod toward it. That’s the only invitation he’ll get.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, probably thinking I’m a petulant teenager through the lens of his forty years and the cynical set of his mouth.
I wait for him to tell me I should show more respect for my father, or that I shouldn’t be drinking hard liquor in front of a guest, or frankly stealing my dad’s private-reserve vodka.
He’s going to deliver the set-down he’s been spoiling for since we met, treat me like a misbehaving kid, and probably swipe the bottle and put it back.
I drain my glass and lean on the edge of the table, waiting for his verdict.
Dima Petrov lifts the bottle, his big, rough hand closing around its neck.
Glass is fragile; he could shatter it without effort.
His dark eyes reveal nothing, maybe a glint of amusement.
He meets my gaze head-on, then lets his eyes drop to my lips.
The look ripples through me, leaving me exposed and exhilarated.
He never breaks eye contact. Raising the bottle, he tips it to his mouth.
I watch the cords in his throat work as he takes a long swallow straight from the neck.
There’s something profane and intimate about it, the raw dare in his eyes as his mouth closes around the glass, making me wish, for a split second, that it were me.
He is, and isn’t, what I expected: tough, practical, reserved, standing apart from everything around him.
Predictable traits. But there’s something else, not just the coiled power or the cold charisma.
A sliver of wildness, maybe, something far beyond what I bargained for when I agreed to play the pretty, headstrong prize for a powerful man.