Page 10 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Still, something about the way her mouth twitched annoyed me.
Now I’m standing in the restaurant bathroom, dabbing cold water against the stain while muttering under my breath. Perfect.
I stare at myself in the mirror. The stain is faint now, barely visible unless someone looks closely. My hair is still neat, lipstick untouched, mascara perfect.
Good.
I refuse to look messy in public. My mother raised that much into me before she died.
I smooth my dress down once more and leave the bathroom. The corridor outside is quieter than the restaurant. Dim lighting. Dark walls. The distant sound of voices from behind closed doors. I’m halfway toward the terrace when someone steps around the corner.
I stop.
Yaromir Volkov barely slows.
Up close, he’s somehow larger than he looked from across the restaurant. Tall enough that I instinctively tilt my head back, broad shoulders filling the narrow corridor.
And older. Not just older than Dmitri—older in a way that shows. Early forties, maybe. Dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, not hidden, not softened. It only makes him look more dangerous. Like time has carved him into something harder instead of wearing him down. The scar is more visible now, pale against his skin.
It should make him frightening.
It does. But not in the way I expect.
For one disorienting second, all I notice is the smell of him. Not cologne. Something darker. Clean musk, smoke, cold air, cedar maybe. Masculine in a way that feels almost unfair.
My body reacts before my brain does. Heat rushes through me instantly, stealing my breath, and I freeze.
What the hell?—
I have never reacted to a man like this before.
Not Dmitri.
Not anyone.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything: the pulse in my throat, the fabric of my dress against my skin, the way Yaromir’s gaze drops briefly to the damp mark near my waist where I failed to fully dry the stain. Embarrassment flashes hot through me.
Then his eyes lift back to mine. Calm. Steady. Completely unreadable.
I should say something, but I just stand there staring at him like an idiot.
His attention shifts slightly, taking me in without hurry. My face. My hair. The ring still glittering on my hand.
Something cold moves through his expression at the sight of it.
Not jealousy. Not anger, exactly.
Something heavier.
“You stained your dress,” he says finally. His voice is deep, rougher than I expected.
Not warm. Just certain.
I glance down automatically. “Your observation skills are impressive.”
One side of his mouth almost moves.
Almost.
