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CHAPTER 1

Lyssa

I don’t know what the hell Yuri was doing in a place like this, but I can’t kill him for it, since he’s dead already.

I approach the rundown bar, boots crunching on the broken bottles and debris littering the sidewalk, and try to put myself in Yuri’s shoes instead. There are better places to drink, and worse, but this place in particular is deep in enemy territory—not the kind of place Syndicate members usually venture without a damn good reason.

I figured my hunt for the assassin targeting our members was reason enough, so here I am in this dark part of the city where the shadows run long and deep, and the Sokolov bratva keep control with a vicious approach that—secretly—I admire.

It took a while to dig up the information that Yuri was drinking here the night he was killed, because he was found two blocks over in a parking lot. But eventually, I threatened the right people just enough to get the intel I needed.

And now here I am. The neon sign over the bar buzzes with a sickly glow, barely illuminating the cracked concrete stoop. The sign is just a bottle, and it’s the kind of bar that doesn’t even have a name. Just “the Sokolov place,” according to the information I punched out of my sources.

I pause, scanning the area before I make my next move. Is someone watching me? I’m getting that weird feeling I get just before action happens.

Well, let them watch. When they’re ready for action, I will be, too.

I push open the door. Inside, the air is predictably thick with smoke and the stench of stale beer. A few rough-looking regulars nurse their drinks, heads down like beaten dogs. But over at the bar, a group of loudmouths attract my attention.

A group of them. Crowding around a lone woman who’s sitting there frozen like a deer in headlights. The leering gazes and crude gestures make their intentions clear even from across the room.

Well, that won’t do.

As I stroll towards them, the idiots finally notice me. Recognition flickers in their bleary eyes, and they straighten—rats catching the scent of a predator. It’s almost comical how quickly their bravado withers under my stare.

The woman looks over as well, her eyes haunted and fearful under thick bangs as they meet mine. Hazel eyes, I decide as I get closer. A soft green-brown that reminds me of the shadows in the forests that grow around the estate at Elysium. There’s a delicate vulnerability about her that is completely out of place in this cesspit. Her soft curves are accentuated rather than hidden by her tight jeans and close-cut fluffy red sweater, and she pushes her cascading dark chestnut hair over one shoulder as I stop and look down at her.

She’d be a dream, if not for the wariness in her face.

“Fuck off,” I tell the men.

They fuck off.

I lean against the bar, letting my gaze sweep down that pale throat and back up to those fascinating eyes again. “You lost, sweetheart?”

She lifts her chin, defiance sparking. “No more than you, I guess.”

I grin at her spirit. She would’ve given those chucklefucks a run for their money, I bet. “I’m Lyssa.”

After a long, cautious moment, she offers, “Scarlett.” It comes out slow, sibilant, and I keep watching her lips long after she’s said it, until her tongue darts out along that lush lower lip.

Then I slide onto a barstool next to her. “Not to be a walking cliché, but what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?” I ask her as the bartender approaches.

Scarlett’s gaze darts away, almost shyly. “I was supposed to meet someone here. A date, I guess.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “But I’m starting to think I got catfished. And now I—well, I’m a little nervous to walk back to my car alone.”

Yeah. I bet she is.

“Whaddyawan?” the bartender snaps, all one word.

What I want is a word with him—about Yuri, about what went down the last night Yuri was here, the last night of his life…

But Scarlett is sitting here like a cornered fox surrounded by hounds. As I look around, every eye is making its way toward her again, skating away when they see me glancing their way. Rabid dogs, every one of them, even the ones pretending to mind their own business. And once I’m gone, they’ll tear her apart. A pang of protectiveness stirs in my chest.

It wouldn’t take but a minute to walk her back to her car, then come back here to ask my questions. And a wolf can certainly handle a few dogs.

I turn my back on the bartender and lean closer to Scarlet, taking in the soft, anxious crease of her brow. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

She shakes her head, silky hair swaying around her cleavage tantalizingly. “I live uptown. I’ve never really…been to this part of the city before.”