Tall. That’s the first thing I notice.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black despite the heat, his coat moving around him like a shadow. His hair is dark, touched with silver at the temples, and his face?—
I forget whatever Lena is saying.
A scar runs down one side of it. Long, pale, brutal. It cuts from near his temple, over his cheek, and disappears somewhere near his jaw. It should make him ugly, but it doesn’t. It makes him look unfinished in the way old castles look unfinished. Damaged, yes, but still standing. Still dangerous.
He reminds me, absurdly, of the Beast from the story my mother used to read to me.
Not the softened version at the end. The one in the castle. The one with claws and silence and too many locked rooms.
“Who is that?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The table goes quiet. That’s how I know I have asked the wrong question.
Irina’s eyes flick toward him, then quickly away. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
Katya doesn’t look up from her glass.
Lena lowers her voice. “Yaromir Volkov.”
I’ve heard of him. Everyone has heard of him, in pieces, in warnings, in unfinished sentences. Dmitri’s older half brother. The one people mention less often. The one who doesn’t attend family dinners or birthday parties or public events unless his presence is a message.
I’ve never seen him this close. I don’t know why that surprises me. Men like Yaromir do not wander into a place by accident.
He speaks briefly to the manager near the entrance. The manager nods too many times. Then Yaromir turns his head, slowly scanning the terrace.
His gaze passes over our table, and for one terrible second, it catches on me.
I stop breathing.
There’s no warmth in his eyes. No curiosity. No open appreciation, the kind I’m used to from men. He looks at me as if I’m a detail in a room he’s already decided he doesn’t care for.
Then his gaze drops to my hand, to Dmitri’s ring, and something shifts in his expression.
Not surprise. Not anger. Something colder.
Recognition, maybe.
Then he looks away. Just like that, as if I’m nothing.
My face burns. I hate it. And still, my pulse is suddenly too loud in my throat.
“Well,” Irina says, exhaling. “That was cheerful.”
I pick up my champagne and drink too quickly. “He’s Dmitri’s brother?” I ask.
Katya is quick to answer. “You don’t know?” Her brows lift. “Hasn’t your family worked under his for ages?”
I look at her. There’s something in her tone I don’t like. Something quick and amused, as if she has caught me being stupid. As if she knows the Volkovs better than I do. The thought irritates me before I can explain why.
“Of course I know,” I say, lifting my glass. “I meant I didn’t realize he came here.” The lie slips out easily.
Katya watches me for a second too long, then smiles. “Right.”
I hate her smile. I hate how calm it is.
