Maybe it’s the fact that she’s wearing something that belonged to my mother while carrying Dmitri’s name on her finger.
Or maybe it’s simply her.
She turns her head slightly, sunlight sliding across pale hair and blue eyes. Too young for me. Too soft-looking. And still, I can’t stop staring.
One of the women says something that makes the others laugh. Not Anya. Her attention drifts instead, toward the water first?—
Then toward me.
Our eyes meet.
And there it is, that feeling. Immediate. Primitive. Violent. Heat punches low into my stomach so fast it almost pisses me off.
She freezes for half a second when she looks at me. I watch the exact moment she notices the scar on my face. Most people react one of two ways: discomfort or curiosity.
She does neither.
She looks at me like she can’t decide whether I disgust her or fascinate her.
My body reacts instantly. A hard pulse of desire settles low in my body, coiling and immediate. My cock tightens against the inside of my trousers with enough force to irritate me.
Ridiculous. I have women whenever I want them. Easier women than this one. Smarter too, probably. But watching Dmitri’s pretty fiancée stare at me with wide blue eyes while wearing my mother’s ring sends blood straight to my cock.
I shift slightly beneath my coat. Annoyed. Interested. Hungry in a way I don’t like.
Then I notice something else.
She doesn’t look away first.
Most people do. Not her.
The rest of the woman are also glancing at me. I don’t need to hear them to know they’re talking about me. It’s in the way their laughter thins out for a second. The way one of them leans closer, voice dropping. The way heads tilt just slightly in my direction before snapping back, as if looking too long might draw attention.
People always think they’re subtle. They’re not.
Anya doesn’t join in immediately. She watches them first, listening. Then she says something—quiet, controlled—and the others react. One laughs. One looks uncomfortable. The dark-haired one, the one who keeps checking her phone, barely reacts at all.
“They’ve noticed you,” Viktor murmurs beside me.
“They always do,” I say.
That’s not arrogance. It’s fact.
“Inside,” I add.
The manager is already hovering near the door, trying not to look like he’s been waiting. His hands are clasped too tightly, knuckles pale. He nods the moment I step toward him and leads us in without a word.
The shift is immediate. Outside, it’s sunlight, water, noise. Inside, everything is contained. Dimmer. Cooler. The air smells faintly of leather and smoke, expensive and controlled.
The private room is at the back.
Three men stand when I enter. I don’t acknowledge it right away. I take my time walking in, letting the silence stretch just enough to remind them whose room this is now.
“Sit,” I say.
They sit.
Viktor closes the door behind us, and the noise from the restaurant cuts down to a dull murmur. The private room has no windows facing the pier. That’s why I use it. No curious eyes.No accidental listeners. No one pretending they came in for the wrong door.
