The man walking toward us is younger, maybe by a few years, but sharper somehow—where Artyom is stillness, this one moves like the world bends for him. His hair is lighter, his eyes a colder gray, and his smile is the kind that could start fights. He’s not dressed like Artyom either. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, tattoos slipping out from under the fabric, every inch of him screaming trouble.
“Brother,” the man says, grinning wide.
“Mikhail.” Artyom’s voice doesn’t change, but there’s something there—something like exhaustion wrapped in affection.
Mikhail doesn’t wait for an invitation. He crosses the space between them in three long strides and pulls Artyom into a rough embrace that looks more like a challenge than a greeting. Artyom lets him for a second, then he pulls back with a quiet, “You look like hell.”
Mikhail laughs. “And you look like someone’s accountant. What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Something that fits.”
“That’s debatable.”
I can’t help it—I smile. Just a little.
Mikhail notices. “And who’s this?” he asks, eyes sliding toward me. “You’re definitely not one of ours.”
Artyom steps in before I can answer. “Kira. My fiancée.”
The title hits harder than it should. I almost flinch.
“Fiancée?” Mikhail echoes, looking between us, amused. “You got engaged on the flight?”
“Something like that,” Artyom says.
Mikhail laughs again, loud and genuine. “You’re kidding. He told me he was incapable of commitment.”
“Still am,” Artyom mutters.
Mikhail gives me a long, curious look. “Well, congratulations. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Probably both,” I say before I can stop myself.
He barks out a laugh, delighted. “I like her.”
Artyom’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Don’t.”
“Relax, brother. I’m not stealing your wife.”
“She’s not—” Artyom stops himself, jaw flexing once, then glances at me. “She’s waiting for a keycard, Mikhail. Not conversation.”
“Touchy,” Mikhail says, still grinning. He leans closer to me, voice dropping. “You must be doing something right.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the sound of heels on marble cuts through the room like a blade.
I turn just in time to seea woman.
Even before I know her name, I know what she is—the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes the air go thin. She looks like she’s been carved for admiration: tall, elegant, her dark hair pinned with jeweled clips that catch the light. Her dress is pale silk, her perfume expensive and deliberate. She moves like someone who’s used to being watched, and she knows it.
Her eyes find Artyom first. Of course they do. The smile that forms is slow, practiced, designed to look natural but sharpened enough to cut.
“Artyom,” she says, voice honeyed, accent soft but deliberate. “It’s been too long.”
He straightens. “Irina.”
She steps closer, ignoring everyone else in the room. “I almost didn’t believe the rumors.”
“What rumors?” he asks, though I think he already knows.
