“I’ll be back.”
And he disappears down a hallway without waiting for a response.
I don’t sit, too busy taking in the massive room, it’s bright, beautiful, clean. It feels fresh. I wouldn’t mind living here instead of townhouse. So close to the rest of the Bratva. Maksim should be ruling from here.
Footsteps echo across the hall.I turn.
A woman crosses the open entry; blonde, sleek, composed. Pale gold hair falling straight past her shoulders. Long legs. Narrow waist. High cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. Blue eyes bright and cool, scanning me in one smooth pass.
She pauses. “Hi.”
Effortless.
Her gaze flicks over her shoulder.
“Kostya,” she calls lightly. “Someone’s here for you.”
And then she keeps walking. I watch her go.
The bone structure. The eyes. The posture. It hits me a second later.
She looks like him.
Not identical, but carved from the same blueprint. Cold beauty. Controlled presence.
Bloodline.
So this is family.
A tall man steps into view. Lean. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Blond hair wind-swept like he doesn’t bother taming it. Blue eyes; the same shade as hers.
The same shade as Maksim’s.
The resemblance is obvious now. Same sharp angles. Same arrogance in the mouth.
Just worn differently.
His smile curves slow when he sees me.
Interested.
Predatory.Definitely a Korsakov.
He takes his time crossing the room.
“Hello,” he says, voice light. Amused already.
I tilt my head slightly. Taller than Maksim. Broader in the shoulders too.
“Hello.”
He studies me like I’m something rare. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
He stops a little too close.
“Not you,” he says honestly.
