2. Ruslan
Ruslan
The house is quiet in a way that makes me nervous. It makes me want to text Yakim and see where my niece is. Usually, I can hear her video calling a friend and chattering away, or bounding down the stairs.
But no; this was planned. A sleepover at a friend’s tonight, so yes, the house feels too quiet. And calling in my head of security is not necessary.
A glass of white wine sits untouched on the kitchen counter as I pace, trying to avoid my phone and the messages I have no interest in answering tonight.
Normally by this hour I would be downstairs in the office. Working. Controlling things.
There are shipments to move through Long Beach. Girls to vet before Stepan folds them into the escort side of the business. Numbers to clean through Lord a temporary city. California has never been home, no matter how many years I spend here pretending otherwise.
Colorado still lives under my skin like an old wound. Andrei made sure of that.
My jaw tightens automatically at the thought of my half-brother. Even after a decade, rage sits close to the surface where he is concerned. Too close.
Restlessness is dangerous for men like me.
It means the leash is slipping.
I know exactly what happens when I lose control. Bodies, blood, fear. The old version of me crawls out happily and starts tearing things apart with his teeth.
“Russ Smith” exists because Ruslan Smirnov became a problem.
Too violent, ambitious, and willing to break bones. California has made me a polished businessman.
Except that for the last several days, I’ve felt that old tiger inside of me, stretching.
My phone buzzes again.
STEPAN: The girl from San Diego checked out. Clean enough to onboard. Pretty. Educated.
I stare at the message for a long moment.
Pretty.
Educated.
Like women are products lined neatly on shelves.
Maybe that should bother me more than it does, after all these years.
The escort side of the business pays well because I run it differently than the pigs these girls usually encounter.
They have choices, protection, and contracts.
Regular medical care and exit options, including retirement accounts.
No drugs forced into veins, no blackmail, and most importantly, I don’t go looking for them.
They come to me.
But it’s still darkness, a darkness that I can’t show to the world—one that Andrei used as a threat to get me out of Colorado.
I type back one-handed: Have Natalia interview her personally.
Three dots appear. Then: You’re distracted tonight.
A humorless smile pulls at my mouth. He has no idea. And the last thing I need is my second in command worried that I might fly off the handle.
I lock the phone and toss it onto the marble island harder than necessary. Distracted is an understatement.
The moment I saw Emma standing in that fitting room, flushed and trying to make herself smaller while wearing a dress designed to worship every inch of her body, something ugly and possessive snapped awake inside me.
Mine.
An insane, dangerous thought. I don’t know anything about this woman; I have no background information on her. Yet I’ve invited her into my home, where the most vulnerable parts of my life are kept tucked away.
I knew immediately that I wanted her underneath me. I wanted to hear what noises she makes when she stops thinking and starts feeling. And she said yes.
A laugh echoes faintly in my memory. Her laugh. Soft, slightly bitter. Defensive. Not polished like the women usually circling men like me.
Emma looked at me like she knew I was dangerous and said yes anyway. That interests me more than it should.
The security panel near the hallway door lights briefly. I squint and see that the front gate is opening…finally.
My pulse slows instead of quickening, a predatory calm settling in. I move toward the balcony overlooking the front drive just as headlights sweep across the courtyard below.
The black town car glides to a stop. For a second, nothing happens.
Then the rear door opens.
And there she is.
Long curls shifting in the night breeze, that dark red dress wrapped around her body like sin itself. She hesitates before stepping fully out of the car, one hand smoothing over her thigh.
She’s nervous. Good.
I rest my hands against the balcony railing, watching her tilt her head back to take in the house. Our eyes meet across the distance, and she goes still.
Fuck.
Heat curls low in my stomach immediately.
The dress is even better in the deep blue evening light. The slit flashes smooth thigh with every careful step she takes toward the entrance. The back lacing exposes tempting glimpses of skin.
She’s too beautiful, and too real. That second part bothers me unexpectedly.
Women usually arrive here wanting something: money, status, attention, a place in my business.
Not this woman. She looked embarrassed when I insisted on sending the car.
Maybe because of the motel she’s staying in.
I don’t care; I learned long ago that some of the most intriguing, powerful people come from unexpected places.
Now, as she stands at the door below and waits for the staff to let her in, she looks like she might just change her mind and run.
The thought makes something dark in me sharpen happily.
No. I don’t think I’ll let you disappear yet.
But I take a deep breath and a moment to remind myself: tonight is simple. Dinner. Pleasure. Nothing more. Tomorrow, she’ll be gone, and I’ll be satiated enough to return to the decadent life I’ve built for myself in the shadows of the fashion industry.
A temporary distraction before I return to work and forget the beautiful stranger with weather-colored eyes and soft curves.
That is all this is supposed to be.
* * *
Downstairs, her heels sound softly against the marble entryway, and instinct whispers something dangerous in the back of my mind. A part of me wants to hunt her through the house—stick to the shadows and scare her heart into pounding for me.
Instead, I take the last few steps down into the entryway and hold a hand out for hers, my lips grazing her knuckles. A blush skirts across her cheeks, followed closely by a frown. She doesn’t like that I’ve seen a weakness.
Trying not to smirk too hard, I murmur, “Please, follow me,” and gesture toward the adjacent dining room. Despite the long table, it’s set up for an intimate evening. Dim light, candles near the head of the table, only two place settings.
I’ve asked for limited staff tonight. Partly to be a good employer; let them have time with their families. And partly because I know what I’m about to unleash later tonight.
The server disappears silently after pouring wine, leaving the two of us alone. Emma keeps one hand wrapped around the stem of her glass like she needs something to anchor herself.
I watch every movement carefully. The last thing I want is for this woman to feel like she has to participate tonight. I want her willing.
“So,” I say smoothly, leaning back. “Where are you from, Emma?”
She glances up from the dish of roasted grape crostini and goat cheese. “New Jersey.”
“That explains the attitude.”
“Oh my God.” She laughs despite herself. “You’ve known me for, like, an hour total.”
“True. But I have a way of reading people.”
Her eyes dart up, a sudden darkness in them. Interesting. There’s something here she wants to avoid.
My eyes drag over her slowly. “You are not nearly intimidated enough by me.”
Emma takes a sip of wine to hide the tiny smile threatening her mouth. “Maybe I have poor judgment.”
“That,” I murmur, “seems increasingly likely, considering that you’re sitting across from me.”
A quiet settles between us, but it’s not awkward, exactly. The breeze drifting through the open terrace doors carries the scent of salt and citrus. “I googled you,” she blurts suddenly, wiping a smear of goat cheese off her bottom lip. My mouth waters.
“Did you?” The words come out distracted.
But she nods, continues: “Russel Smith, fashion mogul and owner of Lord I built an empire on half-truths and strategic omissions.
Who are you?
The thought comes hard and immediate.
Because there’s something beneath the soft curls and defensive humor. Something tightly leashed.
Emma looks back up; her features set into a half-smile. “So mysterious,” she says lightly, trying to redirect. “Your turn. What does a fashion mogul do besides emotionally terrorize women in fitting rooms?”
My mouth twitches.
“A great many things.”
“That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“It should.”
Instead of shrinking from that answer, she huffs out another laugh and reaches for her wine again. I watch the elegant line of her throat as she swallows.
The entrée comes. It’s fermented honey-glazed duck with greens and polenta. We eat in companionable silence, occasionally catching one another’s eye.
“And what about work?” I ask casually. “What do you do when you are not wandering into my store looking devastating in red dresses?”
There it is again. That pause.
She sets her wineglass down too carefully this time. “Nothing exciting.”
Not what I asked.
My instinct is to push harder now. Because whatever it is, she does not want me digging.
But tonight is not supposed to be about truth.
Tonight’s focus is pleasure.
I study her for one long second before deliberately leaning back in the chair again, letting the tension dissolve.
“Good.”
Emma blinks. “Good?”
“I spend enough time around ambitious people. They are exhausting.”
Suspicion flickers in her eyes like she knows I noticed the dodge and chose not to challenge it.
Smart girl.
Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll question why a woman with watchful eyes and careful answers walked into my life looking half-lost and half-running.
Tonight, I want to hear her laugh again instead.
She belongs here more than most people I entertain, though I can’t place why. That realization irritates me strangely. My eyes keep drifting to her mouth.
“You keep staring at me,” she says finally, voice dry as our plates are removed.
“You wore that dress for me to stare at you.”
“I wore this dress because it was the bargain for dinner.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Genuine amusement feels rusty in my chest these days.
“And yet,” I say softly, letting my gaze drift slowly down the curve of her body again, “you still came home with me.”
Her breath catches slightly.
There it is again, that strange pull toward her.
It should be simple attraction. I know lust well enough to recognize it immediately, and I wanted Emma from the second I saw her flushed and insecure in my fitting room. But this feels sharper somehow. Instinctive. Like some primitive part of me recognized her before my brain did.
“Do you vacation alone often?” I ask, trying to slow myself down. I can feel my pulse beginning to pound through my forearms, heat coiling low in my abdomen. I want her cornered, want to rip that very expensive dress off her.
“Not usually,” she admits. “I think I’m having some kind of quarter-life crisis.”
“You look too young for a quarter-life crisis.”
“That’s rude.” But her lips twitch, shoulders dropping in relief.
I want her closer.
The need has grown steadily throughout dinner, and it becomes difficult to focus on anything else. Every time she laughs, every time she pushes curls behind one ear, every time that dress shifts against her skin, restraint slips another inch.
The kitchen sends up chocolate mousse layered with dark cherries and shaved chocolate. Emma makes an embarrassingly soft sound after the first bite.
I go still.
Her eyes widen slightly. “What?”
“You should not make noises like that in front of men.”
Color floods her cheeks instantly.
“Especially not in front of me.”
She points her spoon at me accusingly; the wine having loosened her up, but there’s still a spark of sharp awareness in her eyes. “You say wildly inappropriate things so casually.”
“I am restraining myself tremendously, Emma.”
That shuts her up for a second.
Before she can recover, I lean forward slightly and drag my fingertip through a streak of chocolate near the edge of her dessert plate.
Then, holding her gaze, I smear it slowly across the upper curve of her breast, just above the neckline of the dress.
Emma inhales sharply.
“You—” she starts breathlessly.
I stand before she can finish. Then bend slowly over her, catching the sweet-salt scent of her skin. My hand settles lightly against her throat, not squeezing, simply holding, as I lower my mouth to the chocolate on her skin.
Emma shivers hard beneath me.
The mousse tastes rich and bitter.
She tastes warmer.
I lift my head just enough to meet her stunned gaze over the rim of my glasses.
And realize with absolute certainty that this night is about to become a very bad idea for both of us.