Page 39 of Ruthless Dream

The statement doesn’t kill his amusement.

“I need a drink,” I grumble, striding forward. I’m tugged backward, Ciaran grabbing my hand.

“Perhaps, we skip the drinking tonight.”

“Yes, let’s dictate what I can and cannot eat or drink.” Because that’s what every girl wants.

We make our way up a grand staircase with red carpet. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling.

He squeezes my hand. “I don’t give a damn about your older sister giving me a hard time. The only reason she’s giving you a hard time is because she’s your older sister.”

“She nitpicks.”

“You know, that might just be an Akatov family trait,” Ciaran says.

I try to take my hand away, but his shoulders shake with laughter. When we come to the landing, I stop and turn toward him. “Look. I know. . .”

The silence is filled with the truth. Ciaran is beside me because he saved me from Jack.

“Please just. . . Be nice to my family.”

It’s like asking a venomous snake to be friendly. I’m increasingly aware that I’ve been wearing a cloak of naivety. I see it when Ciaran looks at me. And Yelena’s pitying glance at the bistro.

Ciaran is in my dad’s world. A place where kindness is done away with and retribution is dispensed easily. I don’t know what his goals are, but Ciaran is ambitious. I’m not interested in being used just so he can get in a pissing match with my dad.

“Please,” I whisper again.

“I’m interested in allies tonight,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “Not enemies.”

I could be an ally. The idea floats through my mind as he tugs me into the giant ballroom. The flash of a photograph momentarily blinds me.

There’s a crowd right through the doorway, my ears filling with a din of murmurs. A live band plays jazz. Thanks to a surge of people, there’s a jostle and my hand slips from Ciaran’s. I’m afraid I’ll be lost, but then he’s right in front of me, his jaw set.

“You okay?” he asks, one hand on my shoulder.

“I hate people,” I decide.

He smirks. “Remember that when you want to go shopping.”

Thank God someone invented the internet.

“Adeline!” my mother calls out.

Here we go.

I’m wrenched around, claws on my shoulders as my mother shakes me.

“Mama,” I try to interrupt her Italian mutterings.

“What?” She waves a hand down my body. “I’m just checking to see if my darling daughter is okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” The words are brittle.

“Why would my darling daughter stop talking to me?” There’s the Akatov dramatics I’ve been dreading.

“What are you talking about?”

“You never call me.” Mom blinks wildly like she can’t understand why this hardship has fallen upon her. “We drop you off in the city and never hear a word from you again.”