Page 95 of Nemesis

I sure as hell didn’t. When Kirill shoved a few hundred dollars into my palm and told me to pick a fighter, I had a whole epiphany about the male species. I even thought of the Roman Empire for the first time in my life. Two rounds of shots later, and I think I finally understand drinking, too!

The world spins a little as I lean against the outside of the warehouse, allowing the cool night air to blow through my hair. Kirill and Maksim flank me on either side, passing a lit cigarette back and forth. It would almost feel like a normal family moment—that is, if there weren’t twelve killjoy Bratva soldiers standing around us, sizing up every single person who passes through the entrance.

“Alright, I’ve gotta ask,” Kirill suddenly says, breaking up the peace. “You know what zlaya means, right?”

“Angry?”

Maksim laughs softly. “Evil, really.”

For a moment, my thoughts conjure a pair of pretty, blue eyes that I really wish were here. “Yeah. Not too surprising, given I nearly killed him with his own belt around the time he chose the nickname.”

Maksim laughs, leveling me an approving smile.

“Jesus Christ,” Kirill gasps. “Whatever happened to sweetheart, or honey-pie? Or hey, what about flirting without death threats, hm?”

“Not as fun,” Maksim pitches in. The cigarette burns brighter between his lips as he takes a hit. I’ve never smoked before—there wasn’t time to pick up a habit that would require constant breaks during a rehearsal day. Although after tonight, I’m starting to realize I’ve never done much of anything.

I hold my hand out, tapping my fingers together. “I wanna try.”

Maksim raises a brow.

“Don’t,” Kirill interrupts, the traitor. “Uncle Sasha will flay us.”

“He’ll never know, asshole.” I punch Kirill in the arm. “Besides, isn’t this what cousins are for? This is a prime family bonding moment you’re missing out on.”

With an unconvinced sigh, Maksim locks eyes with Kirill over my head before lifting the glowing stick to me. Success. A thrill sings through my veins as I wrap my lips around the tip and take a deep breath…

Which immediately sends me into a coughing fit that rips through my lungs. The jerks cackle in laughter beside me. Absolutely zero sympathy for my final moments.

“Oh God,” I heave, wiping a tear.

Kirill only laughs harder. “Shut the fuck up.”

“That is nasty,” I cry, spitting smoky saliva onto the pavement. My stomach threatens to flip, reminding me just how much alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. A phone rings. Maksim digs it free from his pocket, then he holds up a finger and walks away.

“And then there were two,” Kirill says, taking another hit from his nasty little death stick. Sadist. “If you throw up, I’m not holding your hair. I can’t handle watching people gag without starting myself.”

I stick out my tongue.

“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice calls out. Surprisingly, the guards let him through their stronghold. I realize why a second later. It’s the fighter, one of Dad’s guys. He had the first match of the night, which he won in an incredible show of might and blood. It was truly fascinating to watch.

“Your name’s Octavia, right? I’ve been assigned to your watch before.”

It takes a second to place him. He’s one of the faces in the group Dad sends along every shooting range outing with Nik, as well as the few times Vas and I have left the compound to go shopping or run errands.

He looks completely different during the day, in his dark clothes and stoic expression. Nothing like the half-naked, muscular man standing in front of me, bruises already beginning to bloom across his face from the fight.

“Yeah. Nice fight, by the way,” I respond with a smile. Kirill’s eyes dart between us with an annoying grin before leaning in to whisper in my ear.

“Daddy Vas is gonna lose it when he sees you flirting with the sexy cage fighter.”

“Don’t call him that, you creep,” I whisper back. “It’s fucking weird.”

“Oh. Not even a denial. Game recognizes game.” He flicks his hand. “Carry on, Cousin.”

I smack the back of his head. Clearly, I should’ve gone harder, because all he does is laugh and whip out his phone, as if trying to offer the semblance of privacy.

“Thanks,” the fighter responds with a crooked smile, politely ignoring the interaction. “It was a good night for me. I’m Dmitri, by the way.”