Page 19 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Viktor and Fedya were still bickering about God knows what—with Viktor doing most of the talking and Fedya alternating between entertaining his brother and looking out for her—as Kostya defended himself from Irina’s allegations.

As the seconds ticked by, Maeve felt less like an alien among them.

Each time Irina spoke, she was reminded that her father and uncle had a hand in her kidnapping, and her stomach churned unpleasantly.

Each time the siblings joked around her, she would remember her father’s task, and something a bit too akin to guilt would bubble in her blood.

Attachment was the last thing she needed to form with these people.

It was bad enough already that she was aggressively fighting the attraction she felt for Fedya himself.

Yet, she couldn’t deny the fact that standing among them and laughing at their jokes was a strikingly sharp contrast to the rumors she’d heard about the family.

She had no doubt that they would be ruthless when the time came, but she’d heard so much about how the Nikolais had no emotions that she believed them.

And this—this proved everything she knew to be a lie. If anything, their bond and carefree attitude reminded her of how much she’d missed out on as a kid. How lonely she was growing up alone. How things would probably be different if she’d had a sibling or two herself.

“You work in international law?” Viktor asked, a smile playing on his lips while his hands stayed in his pockets. After what Fedya had said about how close they were, Maeve was especially cautious of him. Even though he seemed perfectly chill, perfectly playful.

“She does,” Fedya answered smoothly. “Travelled most of Europe before we matched online.”

“Online dating,” Viktor laughed, staring at Maeve like he could see something she couldn’t. “I know I advised you to do it, but it just doesn’t sound like something you’d actually do.”

“Well, he did,” Maeve responded, her voice firm. “And I’m glad he did. Funny how dating apps could bring you straight to your soulmate.”

She could feel Fedya’s stare burning into her skin, and she hated that she loved the burn.

Viktor laughed shrewdly. “Funny indeed.” Then he turned to the rest of his siblings and said, “Now I want to meet my soulmate too.”

Questions rolled in after that, most of which Fedya handled as perfectly as possible. He was such a smooth, calculated liar, and Maeve couldn’t understand why she was attracted to that. It didn’t even sound right.

Before she knew it, they were on the dancefloor, moving in sync to the slow, soft song. A sprinkle of romance. But they danced like it was more real than fake.

“Someone’s watching us,” Maeve said, feeling a new set of eyes digging into her back. People had been watching them since they arrived, but this was different. This was too prominent, too heavy, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to turn back to see who it was.

“It’s my cousin,” Fedya said dryly. “The Pakhan.”

Maeve tried not to let his words affect her. The Pakhan was the oldest of the actual Nikolai brothers. Fedya and his siblings were simply his cousins. “Mikhail Nikolai.”

“Yes,” he responded, spinning her around for a moment before bringing her back to his chest. “He’s intimidating, but you’ll get used to it.”

Maeve swallowed her nerves down her throat and forced herself to think of something else.

“You could have at least told me about my job,” she said, forcing a grin just in case anyone else was watching. Her arms were around his neck, and his were around her waist, moving more easily and confidently than she was.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, watching her with his usual blue gaze.

She could smell the wine on his breath, feel the heat of his fingers pressing into her back, and feel him loom over her even more intimately.

The fire she refused to acknowledge for him had surpassed its steady growth.

It was blooming, ravaging her insides, melting her thoughts, her common sense.

“They believed it.”

“Except Viktor,” she said, looking everywhere but at his lips. They were full and baby pink, the bottom slightly fuller than the top. “He doesn’t buy it.”

“Of course, he doesn’t,” he said, lifting a brow, pressing her closer.

Her nipples were tight peaks on her chest, grazing against his chest with every sway and dip on the dance floor.

Every brush of his chest against them made her shiver, made her stomach dip in desire, her breasts ache for more.

“Do you see how stiff you are?” he said against her ear. “Relax, zhena .”

They weren’t at home, and yet he was calling her his wife.

“Someone could hear,” she hissed, pulling back a bit, but he only tugged her forward.

“It could be my nickname for you,” he said. Amusement sparked in his eyes. “That shouldn’t be weird.”

“Well, it is weird, so don’t.”

“You like it.”

Maeve gritted her teeth. “Excuse me?”

His fingers splayed on her lower back, tracing circles on her spine. “You like it when I call you my wife.”

Maeve scoffed breathlessly, eyeing him like he’d lost his mind even though her stomach was flipping up and down. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

The words barely registered in Maeve’s brain. She blinked, her lips parting as she looked up at him. “What?”

His hand was already curling around her neck, tilting her head towards his. “Viktor’s watching us. We need to convince him.” And then he was guiding her mouth to his, sealing the space between them without an extra warning.

There was nothing slow about this man or his kisses.

It was firm and possessive, hard and immediate.

He barely let her gasp before swallowing it with his warm mouth.

Maeve could taste the rich wine on his tongue at the same time that his other hand tightened around her waist. And her body was betraying her yet again, melting into him, into his kiss, into the way his mouth moved, the way his tongue wrapped around hers.

She was kissing him back harder than she should’ve. More honestly than she meant to.

Both of her hands were fisting his shirt with an aggression she hadn’t felt for anyone before, her heart racing a mile a minute in her chest, her breasts heavy, her tongue tingling.

He did not kiss her gentle. He kissed her like he wanted anyone who saw to know she was his.

His tongue licked into her mouth, his teeth pulled and nipped at her lips, and his hand on her waist slid to her ass, cupping firmly, roughly, hard enough that Maeve could feel liquid heat splattering between her thighs, slick with arousal.

Oh god, in that very second, she wanted him with an aching desperation, too dazed by the electric rush she felt to remember that she was supposed to hate the man. That she had a mission against him.

Her thighs squeezed together, her clit pulsing between her legs like it had a life of its own. And all he was doing was kissing her—no, it was more than that. He was devouring her mouth.

All too quickly, the music came to an end.

The room blurred in and out of focus as he pulled away.

His eyes were dark, desire etched on every line of his face, carved into his hand that was still on her ass, fingers digging into her flesh.

His lips, like hers, were wet, red, swollen, and her fingers were still clutched in the front of his suit when a smattering of applause rose around the dance floor, snapping them both out of the spell.

Maeve blinked, lips tingling, dazed, having forgotten where they were.

Her heart thudded painfully in her ribs as her hands fell from his shirt.

She remembered the first time he kissed her, right in front of her father, hard and fast. Then she’d felt repulsed by it, by the feel of his tongue against hers, by the curve of his mouth.

And now that she’d just had his tongue down her throat a few seconds ago, she wanted more. More than his tongue in her mouth. She wanted it between her legs, licking the hot, slick wetness from her pussy.

Jesus fucking Christ.

But she could barely say the words, could barely think, before the unmistakable bang of a gunshot echoed across the hall.