Page 7

CHAPTER 7

Sabrina

I’ve been a goddamn mess all day.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—six-foot-something of brooding Russian temptation, his voice a dark purr, his presence swallowing the space around him like a living storm. The moment Oleksi Mirochin stood on my doorstep last night, something in me short-circuited. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to shake him, he’s rooted himself under my skin like some intoxicating drug I never agreed to take.

I’ve nearly burned out two vibrators trying to chase the sudden surge of need that’s been haunting me since he left. And that’s saying something because I’ve been exhausted, overworked, and sex-deprived for more than a year now. But nothing—and I mean nothing—explains the insatiable ache that’s taken up permanent residence between my thighs today.

He didn’t even touch me. Just stood there, talking in that cool, calm, too-confident way that made me want to slap him or straddle him. Or both. Definitely both.

Now, standing in my dressing room, fresh from a scalding-hot shower, I towel off the last drops of water and reach for my razor. I shave everything—everywhere—with clinical precision, like I’m prepping for battle rather than a dinner meeting. And maybe I am. Because this? Whatever this is? It’s dangerous.

Once my skin’s silky smooth and I’ve blown out my hair, I go for subtle makeup—just enough mascara to give my lashes a flirt, a swipe of lip gloss that makes my mouth look sinful without trying. My black dress hugs my curves like it was made for me. Nothing too flashy, but just enough to say I see you, and yes, you may look. Paired with strappy heels and a black trench coat, it’s the perfect armor for a woman walking into enemy territory with her head held high.

Except... there’s one problem.

I don’t actually know where I’m going.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, lipstick in hand, blinking at my own damn stupidity. How the hell did I forget to ask where I’m supposed to meet him? I never forget things like this. Ever. My memory is ironclad.

Jesus. The stress. The fatigue. Tara. Oleksi. The last twenty-four hours have scrambled my brain like eggs in a cheap diner.

I snatch up my phone, scrolling through my messages, but there’s nothing. No text. No call. Not even a smug emoji to indicate where this evening’s dark prince expects me to appear. I stare at the blank screen, chewing my bottom lip. Should I call him?

No. Hell no. I am not about to look desperate.

Just as I’m about to give up and pour myself a glass of wine in defeat, there’s a knock at the door. My heart leaps into my throat, pulsing like a war drum. I stride over and pull it open, expecting—well, I don’t know what I’m expecting. But it’s not the tall, elegant brunette standing there in a black suit like she just stepped out of a John Wick movie.

“Syd?” I blink in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Sabrina.” Her British accent is crisp, her blue eyes sharp as ever. “I’m here to escort you to Oleksi.”

My stomach drops. “Oleksi?”

She nods. “He asked me to collect you.”

I frown, confused. The last time I saw Sydney Purdy was in London when we were hunting down Leigh. And back then, she was on the other side of the game. “I thought you worked for Nikolas.”

“I did.” She lifts a brow. “Now I don’t. I’ve been with Oleksi for fourteen months. I’m his head of security. Second-in-command.

Of course she is. It explains the air of cool authority radiating off her like expensive perfume. She doesn’t look like anyone’s sidekick. She looks like she could kill you with a credit card and not spill a drop of blood.

“Well, shit,” I mutter under my breath as I grab my coat and purse. “So you’ve turned to the dark side.”

She chuckles softly. “That’s subjective. To some, what I did for Nikolas was wrong too.”

I pause at the door, locking it behind me. “Fair point.”

We head down the hall, and I expect to make for the lobby, but Syd steps into the private elevator reserved for VIP access. I hesitate, blinking.

“I thought we were going to meet Oleksi?” I ask, confused again.

“We are.” She taps the penthouse button. “He’s staying at the Golden Lights. The Diamond Hotel penthouse is currently under renovation.”

Of course it is .

The elevator glides upward in smooth silence, the hum beneath our feet barely audible. I shift on my heels, nerves tightening with every passing second. I’m used to being in control—of my space, my emotions, my body—but tonight, I feel completely off balance. Like I’m stepping onto a battlefield where the rules are written in seduction and power plays, and I didn’t bring any weapons.

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal a hallway so plush and quiet, it practically swallows sound. Syd leads me to the last suite at the end and knocks once before opening the door.

“He’s inside,” she says, and just like that, she vanishes, the door clicking softly shut behind me.

The suite is dimly lit, the scent of sandalwood and something darker—something him —curling into my lungs. My eyes adjust, sweeping over the space.

And then I see him.

Oleksi stands near the window, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two flutes on the table beside him. He’s dressed in a white cotton shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the hard slice of muscle down his chest. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, veins bulging against thick, tanned skin. The sight punches the breath out of me.

Jesus. Mary. And all the saints.

He turns at the sound of my heels and smiles—slow, deliberate, lethal.

“Sabrina,” he says, like he’s tasting my name on his tongue. “Right on time.”

I’m suddenly very aware of the ache building between my legs again. And I hate it. I hate that my body reacts before my brain can catch up. That a man like him can make me feel like my skin is two sizes too small just by looking at me.

“I don’t remember agreeing to dinner in your bedroom,” I say, arching a brow to cover my nerves.

“It’s not a bedroom, it's the dining area of my suit,” he corrects me before gesturing toward the table, lit with candles and overflowing with dishes. My stomach growls traitorously.

“I wasn’t sure what you would feel like eating,” he says, as if he didn’t just order every one of my favorite dishes—from lemon butter chicken to truffle mac and cheese to molten lava cake that’s still steaming in its ramekin. “So I ordered a few dishes.”

“And you didn’t know they were all my favorites?” I ask, frowning.

He shrugs. “I remembered a few of your favorite foods from when we were looking for Leigh.”

“You were paying attention?”

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I always pay attention to what I want.”

The heat in my face spreads lower. I clear my throat and take the seat opposite him, forcing composure into every line of my body even though I feel like I’m slowly unraveling under his gaze.

Shit—I am so, so screwed.

And dinner hasn’t even started yet.