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DMITRI

I watch her from across the crowded ballroom of the Plaza. Natasha Blackwood embodies both old-money grace and sharp edges. She’s wearing vintage Chanel. A navy-column dress skims her figure effortlessly, creating a sleek silhouette that exudes sophistication. Its fabric softly hugs her curves, falling to ankle length with a modest train that adds a touch of drama.

My brother and his new bride command most of the attention, as they should since this is their first event as a married couple back in Boston. Sofia glows with the particular radiance of a well-loved woman. At the same time, Nikolai keeps her close with his usual possessive grace. But my focus remains on Natasha, who navigates the crowd with practiced ease.

“Your obsession is showing, brother.” Alexi slides into the seat beside me, drink in hand. “The poor girl looks ready to bolt whenever you enter her orbit.”

I trace the rim of my whiskey glass. “She’s smarter than most. Self-preservation instincts.”

“And yet here she is, trapped at our table for the evening.” Alexi’s grin holds a hint of warning. “Try not to terrify her completely.”

The seating arrangements weren’t accidental—I made sure of that days ago. Natasha approaches our table with the careful steps of prey, aware of the predator’s gaze. The deep red of her lipstick catches the light as she forces a polite smile.

“Mr. Ivanov.” Her voice carries that delicious hint of wariness.

“Dmitri, please.” I stand, pulling out her chair directly across from mine.

She settles into her chair with practiced grace.

“I hear you’ve been warning Sofia about us.” I take a slow sip of whiskey. “Not very supportive of your best friend’s new family.”

“Someone has to look out for her interests.” Natasha flags down a passing waiter, snagging a glass of champagne. “Since she seems determined to surround herself with wolves.”

“Wolves? How unoriginal. I expected better metaphors from a museum curator.”

“Fine. How about predatory collectors with too much money and questionable ethics?” Her green eyes sparkle. “Better?”

I lean forward, enjoying how she tenses. “Much. Though you appear comfortable among predators yourself tonight.”

“Only because running would be unseemly. Besides, this dress cost too much to sprint in.”

“It suits you. Vintage Chanel, late 60s?” I watch her surprise register. “I know my designers.”

“Of course you do. Let me guess—you probably know the exact auction where it was last sold, too?”

“London, 2019. You got a deal.” I smile as her eyes narrow. “I make it my business to know things, Ms. Blackwood.”

“How terrifying.” She takes a deliberate sip of champagne. “Do you look into everyone at your parties, or am I special?”

"What do you think?"

“I think you need better hobbies than stalking your brother’s wife’s best friend.”

“But you are proving so entertaining.” I catch her gaze. “You’re not nearly as unaffected as you pretend to be.”

“And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.” She sets down her glass with a sharp click. “Though, points for effort.”

I watch with amusement as Natasha turns deliberately to Erik to her right, who’s been silently observing the room with his usual tactical awareness.

“So Erik, Sofia mentioned you have medical training? Where did you train?”

My brother gives her a brief glance before returning to scanning the crowd.

Her shoulders tense at his dismissal, but she persists. “I’ve always been fascinated by field medicine. The pressure, the split-second decisions...”

“You won’t get much conversation from him,” I interrupt, swirling my whiskey. “Erik saves his words for emergencies.”

She shoots me a sharp look. “Still better company than you.”

“And yet you can’t stop stealing glances at me.” I lean back, enjoying how her cheeks turn a pretty pink. “Even when pretending to be fascinated by my brother’s medical expertise.”

“I’m not—” She cuts herself off, fingers tightening around her champagne glass stem. “You really think everyone’s dying for your attention, don’t you?”

“No. Just the ones who protest too much.”

Erik stands abruptly, likely spotting something that requires his attention. Natasha watches him go with poorly concealed disappointment.

“Looks like it’s just us now.” I shift closer. “Unless you’d like to try engaging Alexi in conversation about cryptocurrency?”

“I’d rather not.” But there’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

“Such hostility. And here I thought us Ivanovs were your friends.”

“Friends?” She snickers, her amusement bitter. “Is that what you call it when you stalk someone’s entire fashion history?”

“Just showing interest in your passions. Isn’t that what friends do?”

Her eyes meet mine. “We’re not friends, Dmitri. We’re not anything.”

“Dance with me,” I say, standing and offering my hand. The orchestra has shifted to a slower, more intimate song.

Her eyes widen slightly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Come now,” Alexi leans forward, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “One dance won’t kill you. Though with Dmitri, who knows?”

“Really not helping,” she mutters, but there’s an uptick at the corner of her mouth.

“Tash!” Sofia approaches our table, flushed from dancing with Nikolai. “Why aren’t you dancing? The music’s perfect.”

“I was declining your brother-in-law’s invitation, actually.”

Sofia’s eyes dart between us, and I recognize that matchmaking gleam. “Oh, but you must! Dmitri’s an excellent dancer. One dance won’t hurt.”

I extend my hand, watching her resolve crumble under the combined pressure. Her fingers twitch in her lap.

“Fine. One dance.” She places her hand in mine. “Only because you’re all insufferable.”

I help her to her feet, noting how she tries to maintain maximum distance even as I pull her to the dance floor. Her pulse races when my fingers rest against her wrist.

“Relax,” I croon as I draw her into position. “I don’t bite—usually.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.” She allows me to pull her closer, her body tense against mine.

“You know,” I adjust my grip on her waist, “for someone who claims not to be intimidated, you’re awfully rigid.”

“I don’t enjoy being manipulated onto dance floors.”

“Is that what happened? I thought you made the choice yourself.”

Her eyes narrow. “We both know choice had nothing to do with it.”

I guide her through a turn, enjoying how perfectly she follows despite her protests. “There’s always a choice, Natasha. You’re angry because you chose to say yes.”

There’s a hitch in her breath when I pull her even closer than is respectful, my hand sliding lower on her back.

“Getting comfortable?” I speak against her ear.

“You’re impossible.” But she doesn’t pull away.

“And you’re a terrible liar.” I spin her into another turn, letting my thigh brush between hers. “Your eyes give you away. Dilated with longing whenever I’m close.”

She stiffens. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” I hold her more tightly. “I bet you’re dripping beneath that pretty dress right now.”

Her sharp inhale tells me I’ve hit the mark. Her fingers dig into my shoulder.

“You can’t just say things like that,” she hisses.

“Why not? We both know it’s true.” I let my lips brush her ear. “I can sense how you respond to me.”

"Stop it."

“Make me.” I pull back enough to meet her gaze, finding her pupils blown wide with desire. “Tell me I’m wrong, Natasha. Tell me you don’t think about me late at night, alone in your bed.”

Her cheeks flush crimson, but she holds my stare. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes,” I agree. “And yet here you are, pressed against me, getting wetter by the second.”

My hand slides lower, cupping her ass through the silk of her dress. “I bet you’re the type to beg so prettily when desperate.”

The crack of her palm against my cheek echoes across the dance floor. Several heads turn our way as Natasha wrenches herself from my grip, eyes blazing with fury.

“How dare you.” Her voice rises with rage. “I don’t care who you are or how much power you think you have. I’m not one of your possessions to paw at.”

She spins on her heel and storms off the dance floor, leaving me with my cheek stinging. Her perfect polish has cracked, revealing something far more fascinating beneath.

I touch my face, still feeling the sting of her hand. No one has dared strike me in years. The last person who tried ended up in the East River.

Watching her retreating form and the way her spine remains ramrod straight even as she practically vibrates with anger stirs something primal in me. She’s not cowed by wealth or power, not impressed by my name or reputation.

Most women throw themselves at me, eager to catch an Ivanov’s attention. Instead, Natasha Blackwood slapped me in front of half of Boston’s elite and walked away like I’m nothing.

I can’t tear my eyes away as she grabs her clutch from our table and heads for the exit. The rhythm of her hips carries a sense of empowerment rather than apprehension.

Fascinating.