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DMITRI

F rom my vantage point near the bar, I scan the room, cataloging every detail of tonight’s charity gala. The usual people mill about—old money mixing with new, social climbers desperate for attention, philanthropists seeking tax write-offs. But my attention locks onto one figure across the room.

Natasha glides through the crowd in a black Dior gown that clings to her curves like a second skin. The dress features a daring slit that reveals flashes of leg with each step. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder, drawing attention to the elegant line of her neck. She’s traded her signature red lips for a softer pink tonight.

My fingers tighten around my whiskey glass. She commands attention without trying, a rare quality in these circles where desperation perfumes the air. Several men attempt to catch her eye, but she dismisses them with practiced grace.

“Your newest obsession, brother?” Nikolai steps up to my side, following my gaze.

“Observation isn’t akin to obsession.” I savor another sip, letting the burn distract me from the urge to cross the room.

“No? Then why have you barely looked away since she arrived?”

I let that go unanswered. Natasha laughs at something her companion says, the sound carrying across the room. Her head tilts back, exposing her throat. Her diamond choker catches the light, drawing my eye to the vulnerable hollow beneath.

“She’s not like the others,” Nikolai continues. “She sees through the facade.”

“Good.” I put down my empty glass. “The facade bores me.”

Natasha’s gaze finally meets mine across the room. A slight furrow appears between her brows before she looks away, but not before I catch the flash of heat in her eyes. My pulse quickens at the silent acknowledgment.

“Just remember,” Nikolai says, “some art is meant to be appreciated from a distance.”

I straighten my cuffs, a smile playing on my lips. “When have I ever been content to simply observe?”

I track Natasha’s movements through the crowd, noting how she expertly deflects advances from drunk socialites. But one particularly persistent fool can’t take a hint. Gregory Matthews, new money trying to buy his way into society’s upper echelons.

My jaw clenches as I watch him corner her near a marble column, his meaty hand wrapping around her wrist. The crystal champagne flute in my grip threatens to shatter.

“I said no.” Natasha’s voice is clear and sharp despite the music. She tries to pull away, but Matthews blocks her path.

“Come on, sweetheart. One dance.” His other hand drifts down her back.

Before I process my own movement, I’m across the room. My fingers dig into his shoulder, spinning him around.

“Remove your hands.” Ice coats each word.

Matthews’ face flushes red. “This is a private conversation?—”

“Which ended the moment she said no.” I step between them, my back to Natasha. The temperature in my chest drops another ten degrees. “Unless you’d prefer to discuss proper etiquette somewhere more private?”

Understanding finally dawns in his alcohol-glazed eyes. He stumbles back, hands raised. “My mistake. No offense meant.”

"Leave."

He practically runs. Smart man.

I turn to find Natasha staring at me, her green eyes wide with surprise. A mix of emotions crosses her face—relief, confusion, wariness. Her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat.

“I could have handled him,” she says, chin lifting.

“I’m aware.” I reach for her wrist where Matthews grabbed her, examining the reddened skin. Fury coils in my gut at the marks. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

She inhales sharply at my touch but doesn’t pull away. “I didn’t expect you to...”

“To what? Object to another man pawing at you?” The words come out harder than intended, revealing more than I planned. Her eyes widen further at my possessive tone.

“Dance with me.” My tone brooks no argument as I extend my hand. The orchestra shifts into a slow waltz, the timing perfect.

“And if I refuse?” Natasha’s eyes flood with defiance. “Do you wish for a repeat of last time we danced? When I slapped you, Dmitri?”

“That would create a scene. It’s your choice.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “But we both know appearances matter here.”

Electricity shoots through my palm the moment she sets her hand in mine. I escort her to the dance floor, positioning us where Matthews can see his replacement. My hand settles at the small of her back, fingertips grazing bare skin through the dress’s cutout.

“Is this how you usually get your way?” She moves with natural grace, keeping perfect time. “Threats wrapped in velvet?”

“Only when necessary.” I draw her closer than strictly proper, enjoying how her breath catches. “Though I prefer to think of it as mutual benefit.”

“And what benefit do I get?” Her nails dig slightly into my shoulder.

“Besides rescue from unwanted advances?” I spin her smoothly, using the movement to pull her flush against me. “Protection. Status. The pleasure of my company.”

She laughs. “Your ego knows no bounds.”

“It’s not ego if it’s true.” My thumb traces small circles on her back. “You’re trembling.”

“Anger does that.” But her pupils are dilated, betraying her.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” I spin her, my thigh pressing between hers. “Your body tells a different story.”

“My body doesn’t know better.” Her fingers flex against my hand. “My mind does.”

“Your mind overthinks.” I lean close, my lips brushing her ear. “Sometimes instinct knows best.”

She shivers, then stiffens. “And your instincts? To possess? Control?”

“To safeguard what belongs to me.” The words slip out before I can catch them.

“I don’t belong to you.” But she doesn’t pull away.

"Not yet."

The music fades, and Natasha steps back, breaking our connection. Her cheeks are flushed, sending heat coursing through my veins.

“Thank you for the dance.” She smooths her dress, composure returning. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I watch her retreat through the crowd, resisting the temptation to follow. My feet carry me to the bar, where I order a double scotch, neat. The burn of alcohol doesn’t quite match the fire she ignited.

“Well, that was interesting.” Alexi slides onto the stool beside me with a knowing smirk. “Never seen you lose control like that before.”

“I didn’t lose control.” The words come out sharper than intended.

Erik appears on my other side, his silent presence more judgmental than Alexi’s teasing. “The whole room noticed.”

“Noticed what?” I keep my voice level, though my fingers tighten around the glass.

“The electricity.” Alexi steals my drink, taking a sip. “The way you looked ready to break Matthews’ hand. The definitely-not-regulation dance moves.”

“She needed assistance.”

“Since when do you play the white knight?” Erik’s question hits too close to home.

“She’s different.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.

Alexi’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did the mighty Dmitri just admit to having feelings?”

“Careful, brother.” But my usual threatening tone lacks bite. My eyes track Natasha across the room where she’s rejoined Sofia.

“You’re not even listening.” Alexi waves his hand in front of my face. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Enough.” I drain my glass, unsettled by how easily they read me. More unsettled by how right they are.

“The great manipulator, finally manipulated.” Erik’s rare smile holds too much understanding. “By a woman who clearly sees through your games.”

I signal the bartender for another drink, unable to deny their observations. The loss of control, however slight, rattles me more than I care to admit.