The only thought I have is that if she couldn’t find anyone else to marry, she must look like a long-haired version of Luka. Seven-foot-something Russian woman with a mustache, a unibrow, and a deep voice. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… It’s just not my type.
I’m sure she slays with the men at the Russian wrestling meets.
I grimace at the thought, but I’m in too deep now.I can’t believe I’m fucking agreeing to this. Maybe I’m a bigger pushover than I thought. Maybe marrying Anika wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
The jet touches down smoothly, taxiing toward the hangar. I watch, my mouth dry, as it comes to a stop and the door opens.
A set of stairs unfolds.
And then she steps out.
The first thing I notice is that she's small.
Not short exactly—probably around five-five—but delicate. Graceful. Like she's floating down the stairs instead of walking.
She's wearing a blue sundress, heels, and a mink wrap that probably costs more than my car. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, and even from a distance, I can see the sharp, elegant lines of her face.
She looks as if she stepped out of an old Hollywood movie.
Behind her, two guys in dark suits follow—bodyguards, I realize. They're scanning the area as if they're expecting a threat.
"You didn't mention the bodyguards," I mutter.
"She's a Popovich," Luka says simply. "It comes with the territory."
"Luka… please tell me you didn’t just force me into a marriage with a mob princess."
He glances at me and then back at her without a word.
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?”
Katerina reaches the bottom of the stairs, and her gaze sweeps across the airfield before landing on Luka.
Her expression softens—just barely—and she walks toward us.
I should move. Should say something. Should do literally anything other than stand here like an idiot.
But I can't.
Up close, she's even more stunning.
Her eyes are this icy blue-gray that seems to look right through me, and her posture is so perfect it makes me want to stand up straighter just by proximity.
She stops in front of Luka, and they exchange a few words in rapid Russian. I catch my name—Scottie—and see her gaze flick toward me.
Her expression doesn't change.
She has the same cold, assessing stare that Luka has.
Luka switches to English. "Katerina, this is Scottie Easton. East, this is my sister, Katerina."
I extend my hand, trying for a smile. "Hey. Nice to meet you."
She looks at my hand for a moment—like she's deciding whether to take it—and then places her fingers lightly in mine.
Her handshake is brief. Polite at best.
"Hello," she says, her accent faint but unmistakable.
