Page 15 of Untamed Beast
“The whole Bratva has secrets, Aleksandr. Trying to find an appropriate match for an heiress, well, it’s a difficult task that I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Funny, I never got an invite into that dating pool.”
These were the Bratva kids who came to our neighborhood to buy drugs and nothing else. Fyodor and Pyotr were the exception — but only because Maksim forced them to spend enough time at the docks that they got to know us. And actually learned how to work, for once in their sheltered little lives.
Maksim lets out a weary sigh and wipes a hand across his face. “If you think you can convince my daughter to walk down that aisle again today, you’re very wrong.”
“But if I can convince her, you won’t stop the match?”
He nods tightly, clutching the files to his chest.
“I will not stop the match. And you will not tell a soul what you’ve learned about the paintings.”
4
NATALIA
The first thing I do is unbraid my hair and tug out the diamond pins, so that it falls loose around my shoulders again. My headache fades in seconds. Then I pop open the bottle of champagne that was left in the sitting room for the reception.
I was supposed to be back here with my new husband, celebrating our first moment alone together as newlyweds.
Instead I’m alone, with my cat, looking forward to a night of cataloging another shipment of paintings.
“We did it, Dasha. We get to stay here, with no men to tell us what to do.”
I raise a toast to my tabby cat, who purrs at me from her patch of sunlight. I rescued her from the street when I was a child, but she’s got a better life than me these days. At least no one ever tries to marry her off for a business deal.
I sigh with contentment. The fizz of the champagne is delicious on my tongue — I tend to avoid the Bratva partiesmy mother loves to throw, but I do love champagne, so it’s a special treat.
“Celebrating your not-wedding?”
I thought it would be my mother, ready to tell me what a fool I was for cancelling another promising wedding.
Instead it’s aman’svoice — low and rough and warm.
The man with the scar across his face is in the room.
He pulls the door shut behind him and starts walking towards me.
No,stalkingtowards me, like a predator approaching its prey.
My champagne flute tumbles to the floor, spilling onto the cream carpet and sending Dasha across the room to hide under an armchair.
The man watches on with amusement as I scramble to pick up the champagne flute.
Something about his intense blue eyes following my every move has my brain unable to send the right signals to my body.
My mind can only bounce around in panic, flitting between the dark ink tattoos on his forearm, the buzzcut sides of his hair, and the unsettling intensity of his gaze.
He leans against the windowsill in front of me. He’s so broad that he blocks out the light, a shadow in front of the gardens.
His face is fascinating — black hair, blue eyes so dark they’re like the evening sky in summer, and a scar across his left cheek. I follow its ragged path to his jawline and the side of his neck. Whatever it’s from, that must have almost killed him. This is a face with stories and years behind it.
I wait for someone to follow him in, someone to tell me what this is about.
But it’s just the two of us.
Alone.
