I smile.
“Disappointed?”
That grin widens.
Oh.
He likes that.
“Not at all,” he says, extending his hand. “Kostya Korsakov.”
I take it. His grip is firm but not crushing. Testing, not threatening.
“Ayla,” I say.
“Ayla,”he repeats, like he’s tasting the name. “You look fun.”
“Fun?”
“Mhm, are you here for me? Say yes,” he towers over me, his fingers brush my cheek like he’s already claimed permission.
Maksim’s voice booms from the entryway, sharp and commanding in Russian. I freeze, glancing at Kostya, who only smirks.
“He says if I touch you, I die.”
Before I can react, Kostya’s hand grabs mine, pulling me into him. In one smooth, daring move, he dips me back as if we’re dance partners, his face hovering just inches from mine. I barely have time to catch my breath before a click cuts through the room. My eyes widen as I stare into Kostya’s, crinkled at the edges with an infuriatingly smug smile.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “We could have had fun.”
He pulls me back up, releasing me and stepping away with his hands raised in mock surrender. He tosses a wink my way. “Sometimes, I like to test his aim.”
Maksim’s expression is ice, his gun still trained on Kostya as he watches his brother walk off.
I don’t watch him leave.
I look at Maksim.
Reallylook at him.
The gun.
The tension in his shoulders.
The way his jaw locks like he’s restraining something feral.
He doesn’t lower the weapon until Kostya disappears around the corner, and even then, his gaze remains dark and stony as he turns back to me.
“Don’t go near Kostya again,” he says, his voice rough with warning.
The edge in it isn’t casual. It’s territorial.
And fuck, I feel it.
Something warm slides low in my stomach.
I roll my eyes, but it’s deliberate now. Testing. “He just introduced himself.”
“You don’t need to know him,” he growls, his eyes narrowing.
