Suited men prance around with high chins and Rolexes, and women in elaborate gowns follow behind them wearing pearl, Cinderella-looking heels.
I make my move.
I exhale a sigh of relief when I successfully make it around the corner. I end up in a hallway that looks like it leads down to a bridal suite, looking at the juliet roses that have been arranged into a flower arch by the door.
Something is seriously wrong.
It’s me and Sophia against the world.
We’re each other’s ride or dies.
So, who the fuck are these bridesmaids?
Anger curses through my veins. I don’t know what to think or feel. Anger that she didn’t tell me about this? Scared, for thesame reason, because none of this sits well in my gut? Either way, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
I tense my jaw and make a run for it, all the way down the bridal suite. That’s when a hand clamps around my wrist.
Shit.
I shove forward, but the grip feels stronger than iron.
I try again.
No good.
Double shit.
Time to face the music.
“Going somewhere?” A deep, guttural voice says.
I spin around and collide with the fucker’s chest. Ouch. Hard as nails. Clearly, the guy never skips a workout. It doesn’t just feel like that. It looks like it too.
Blue eyes cut straight into my soul. They’re piercing. Navy blue, like the ocean in Miami. Tattoos web around his neck, spreading onto his chest, although I can’t see past his collarbone because of the buttoned-up tailored suit. I don’t know what any of the tattoos symbolize, but it can’t be anything good. Especially when I see Russian Cyrillic inked into his skin too.
The man tightens his jaw, popping the cheekbones even more. Black stubble peppers his cheeks, contouring them. The lines look freshly trimmed - must be a special occasion for him and his degenerate friends if he made the effort to shave. Although something tells me he always looks this put together. He has immaculate posture and stands tall with his shoulders rolled back. The calculated look makes it feel like I’m being psychoanalyzed.
Or something much worse.
I think about yanking myself free and making a run for it, but this time, it’s not just his grip that locks me in place. It’s his eyes too.
What sort of mind games is this bastard playing?
“I asked you a question.”
The thick, Russian accent ruptures me from my thoughts. “You’re in my way.”
“You’re in my house,” is the response.
I pick my brain for a punchy comeback line, but there isn’t one. Instead, I look at his hands.
The hands of a killer.
I wonder how much damage he’s done with those hands. How many lives he’s taken.
It’s probably best not to think about that, considering how close the two of us are, standing right next to each other. I can feel his breath fanning my face. A mixture of mint, and something masculine I can’t put a finger on.
I gulp. Take a step back.
