Lucas.
He’s threading through the guests like a shadow, careful not to touch anyone. The tray in his hands doesn’t waver, but his grip on it is too tight, fingers white against the polished metal.
He pauses mid-step, tray balanced neatly on one palm, the other hand lifting toward his ear, adjusting something small. A hearing aid. The gesture is quick, habitual, but my eyes follow it. And then his gaze lifts.
And lands on me.
It’s like gravity tilts. My chest stutters, ribs tightening as though my own heart just misfired.
Fuck.
The rest of the room, its voices, the clatter of glasses, the shifting bodies, all of it collapses into silence. Blurs. Empties. Until it’s only him. Only us.
His eyes widen, and shock drains the color from his freckled skin. Then I see the Panic flicker across his delicate features, sharp and breakable all at once, as if I’ve stolen the ground from under his feet. But it isn’t me he’s afraid of. No. It’s this.
This pull.
This tether that snaps tight between us, raw and undeniable. He feels it—I can see it in the way he freezes, in the way his breath catches like he’s been caught trespassing in his own body. He feels it, and it terrifies him.
My mouth curves, it’s a ghost of a smile, but one meant for him and him alone. He doesn’t know it yet, but I already own this moment. Already own him.
The tray tips, one glass sliding toward the edge. The light fractures against it as it teeters, just before his quick fingers snatch it back. The save is clean, but I see the tremor in his hand.
Even across the room, I taste it. His unease, sharp like iron. His uncertainty, rich and intoxicating. He doesn’t understand what this is, and neither do I.
But the one thing is for sure: I want to make him mine.
FOUR
LUCAS
The auction room hums with a kind of polished chaos—laughter, clinking glasses, the smooth cadence of the auctioneer’s voice rising and falling like a well-rehearsed song. To everyone else, it must feel vibrant, electric. To me, it’s all just static. A blur of noise my hearing aid can’t quite filter, too sharp at the edges and too muffled at the center. The chandeliers throw a golden glow across the whitewashed walls, highlighting every crease of velvet, every glint of jewelry, every smug tilt of a wealthy man’s smile.
I linger at the corner with the other servers, tray balanced in my hand, trying to look like part of the wallpaper. My heart hasn’t slowed since I spotted him.
Alexander Pavlovich Petrov.
The name alone coils through the room like smoke. I picked it up from whispers, gossip slipping easily between servers and guests who seem to enjoy saying it, savoring its weight. A family so rich with old money that they practically drip influence, their roots stretching through this country and Russia alike. Some even whisper the word mafia. I would’ve rolled my eyes at the rumor, laughed it off as exaggerated fantasy, if I hadn’t seen him myself—fists bloodied, face shadowed, beating a man as if wrathwas carved into his bones. That memory alone is enough to keep my pulse unsteady and make me scared of him.
And now, here he sits.
He’s leaning back in his chair like the whole event exists for his amusement, his long frame relaxed but commanding. He looks untouchable, unshakable, like the kind of man people orbit but never approach. His jaw is sharp, nose straight, hair as dark as the devil’s soul, and those eyes—God, those blue eyes. They sweep the room like a predator scanning territory, always coming back to me. Every time they do, I look away too quickly, afraid of what he might read in me… or worse, what I might see in him.
Running into him here feels like the universe is deliberately playing cruel tricks. I thought I’d escaped him after that night in the alley, but apparently not. I almost convince myself he’s here for me, stalking me in plain sight, until I overhear that his brother is one of the artists showcasing a painting tonight.
My gaze shifts, reluctantly, to the man beside him. Anton, if I caught the gossip right, is his older brother. He and Alexander don’t share much in terms of facial features. Anton carries a Southeast Asian sharpness, while Alexander looks entirely Russian, colder somehow. And yet, there’s no mistaking the bond between them. Same height, same broad shoulders, the same air of quiet intimidation that makes people hesitate before looking them in the eye. Anton’s expression is unreadable, almost lifeless, as though the whole world is a dull play he’s already seen too many times. If Alexander is storm, Anton is stillness, a kind that makes your skin prickle because you don’t know what’s hiding underneath.
Then there’s the other brother, the artist. He looks different, lighter on the surface. A mix of Thai and Russian features, he’s not as broad and tall as his brothers, but he’s toned and fit, his blonde hair is cut short in a buzz, high cheekbones that sharpenwhen he smiles. And he does smile, often, almost too often—at servers, at guests, at people who probably don’t even realize they’ve caught his attention. But I can’t shake the feeling that his playfulness is a mask, a bright cover for something darker. His eyes give him away, it’s sharp, guarded, holding a thousand stories that he’ll never tell. He unsettles me in a different way than Alexander, like he’s the kind of person who’d laugh while setting fire to the world.
“Ten thousand,” the auctioneer calls out, his crisp, professional voice cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
I blink, startled, dragged back to reality. The spotlight frames an abstract painting—sharp, jagged strokes, muted colors smeared like someone gave up halfway through. Paddles rise without hesitation.
Ten thousand for that? For something that looks like it was made in five minutes?
“Thirty thousand.” Another paddle. Another voice.
I barely register it.
