He also eats with the table manners of a child and the pomposity of someone who doesn’t give a shit what others think of him.
I keep taking small sips of the tea to hide my reaction. I’m not going to be able to freak out every time he walks into a room, so I need to get used to his presence—and scent—pronto. Eventually, he leans back in his chair. I hope it means he’s about to dismiss me, so I can go stand under a cold shower to get his smell off my skin before spending the afternoon coming up with a better game plan.
Instead, it’s Barbie that brings relief.
“Sergey, you should have told me you were coming home early,” she croons lyrically—in English—like a songbird. She glides across the room like one too. Her stunning pink, silky dress that dips dangerously low at the front flutters behind her.
Her scent is even more put-on than her sex-doll persona. So put-on that it defies normal designation boundaries. The mere thought makes me look at her differently. Letting my cynical side come out to play, I start listing off everything that’s fake about her. Her nose is way too pointed and, dare I say it, perfect. Her rosebud lips rouse the same suspicions she’s got a great plastic surgeon on hand. I kind of give myself a high-five because this girl, perching on my fiancée’s lap and whispering into his ear, is as plastic as Mattel’s Barbie.
She’s fake across the board, including her designation. I’d put money on her being a Beta, using creams and probably medication to glide over the fact she’s not an Omega.
“Bambi,” he growls, licking into her mouth.
As soon as her name registers, I lose it. The mouthful of tea I had just taken sprays over the table.
“Fuck my life,” I gasp under a flurry of coughs to hide the laughter about to get me in some very serious trouble. “I’m sorry.” I turn, dropping my eyes and being as meek as ever. “The tea is extremely strong. I’m not used to it.”
Thankfully, Bambi is busy reminding Sergey of all the reasons he should marry her. They pay me no attention as I stand, but I am not keen on watching them reunite either. Racing out of the breakfast room, I narrowly avoid colliding with the other members of Bambi’s girl gang.
I make it past the guard before my control slips, and I start laughing so hard I fold in half, struggling to breathe. I was so close to getting her name right to start with, but her name really suits. I have to do a countdown back from twenty to get a grip of my giggles.
By the time I stop atone, I’m mostly in control and back on my side of the house.
And I’m not alone anymore.
Chapter Twelve
ALEKSEI
Atug of something stirs. Prickles of unease race up the back of my neck, like an awareness or a warning. Flicking off the shower, I grab a towel and one of my pistols, and meld into the shadows coating the walls of my suite, looking for answers.
I know there’s no one inside my suite. Nalla would have appeared on her silent feet to warn me. Roshka, always the opposite to my girl, would have barreled through the door in his need to protect. They both stand next to me, waiting for instruction.
There's another pull-like sensation from somewhere within my chest. Not like an ache or a flash of pain; it’s completely different but no less physical.
I have learned to trust the inexplicable, and it guides me towards the double doors separating my small wing of the house from Sergey’s.
Something outside the doors triggers the security cameras to activate, and the screen flickers to life, giving me a crystal-clear view. A woman’s profile fills the screen. She’s listening to someone, or trying to, her features not hiding she’s finding it hard to follow.
Nalla pushes her forehead into my hand, waiting for direction and, sensing my unease, ready for instruction on what she can do to help. Roshka stands behind us, waiting too.
My fingers fly across the system settings, splitting the screen so I can see the view from a different angle. Straight away, I recognize Larisa as the person pressed up against my door. She is one of Sergey’s most popular and expensive call girls at his club. She’s easily recognizable; her raven-black hair shines like polished ebony, her femme fatale trademark ruby-red lips drawn tight.
I’d like to know why she’s only wearing a very sheer black G-string and hissing like a banshee. But it’s just background noise.
The other woman is all I can see and hear. There’s something about her, a familiarity which makes no sense. I want to snatch her off her feet and lock her inside my suite, which makes even less sense.
I can’t stop watching. Her eyes are hidden as she stares down at something, and I want to say there’s the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. I turn the volume up, but the vulgar threats Larisa is screaming at her don’t correlate with the grin on the stranger’s lips.
The words Larisa is spewing become worthy of attention when she makes bold proclamations about why she’s at my door.
Sergey said he would send someone to me, and that’s what Larisa is saying in a roundabout way, but Larisa is taking it further, like we have history and perhaps even a future. She can say what she likes; it doesn’t matter to me. What is important arethese games Sergey enjoys. And I refuse to be drawn into them. Because, with Sergey, there are always consequences.
Using Larisa, like he obviously wants me to do, will have repercussions. Not taking her will result in a similar fallout.
The white noise intensifies, like swarming bees, the more I think of my brother.
The instantsheopens her mouth, everything stops. Including my heart. Her voice is low and husky, drawing blood straight to my knot.
