Page 7 of Twisted Fate

I can’t let whatever shit Markus has gotten himself into tonight become my problem as well.

Past the entrance is a long, dimly lit hallway leading to an open door. Markus appears in the archway and quickly closes the distance between us. His light brown hair is disheveled, his shirt wrinkled. There are purple smudges under his blue eyes, and the scruff on his jaw is at least a couple of days old.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says under his breath. “I wasn't sure you’d come.”

“You weren’t?”

“I'm never sure when it comes to you,” he says.

His words sting since I’d like to think they’re not the truth.

“The feeling’s mutual.” I shove the bag at him hard enough that he takes a step backward. Then I add, “Asshole.”

This would usually earn me a grin, but not tonight. It worries me.

“Did you look inside?” he asks.

“No. I don’t want to know what’s inside.” It’s the truth, even though a million possibilities had gone through my mind on the way here.

“Good.” Markus nods firmly. “Now, get out of here.”

It’s not like I expected a thank you. Or an excuse to get the fuck out of here at my earliest convenience. “Way ahead of you. Good luck with…whatever the hell this is.”

Worry nags at me as I turn away, a bit reluctantly now, and take a few steps before I hear a deep, male voice that doesn’t belong to my brother.

“Who are you?”

The sound freezes me in place. Three words, but I feel them twist right down to my core like hot silk.

I’ve heard those words before. That voice before.

Keep walking, I command myself. And don’t look back.

But I can’t move.

“She’s my sister,” Markus supplies when a deadly kind of silence falls over us.

“I didn’t ask you,” The Voice says. “I asked her.”

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d stayed right where I was that night when Damian Russo had asked my name. Or if I’d followed my impulse to run to him after Enzo had hit me.

I guess there’s no time like the present.

“My name’s Alina,” I say, raising my chin as I finally turn to face him.

And there he is. My demon-angel.

No, not mine. Never mine. No more bad boys for me.

I note all the things I saw that night, and some I didn’t. He’s a little taller than Markus’ six feet. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Lean muscle. He isn’t wearing a suit tonight. Instead, he’s wearing dark, slim fit jeans that outline muscular thighs and a dark gray casual button-down, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and covered in tattoos. His face is angular with high cheekbones and a straight nose. I stare at his lips as they shape my name.

“Alina,” he repeats, sliding each syllable slowly over his tongue, like he’s tasting it. Tasting me.

His gaze snares mine, those cold, dark eyes flaring with heat. I swallow. He’s a forbidden fantasy come to life. Did he remember me? I give myself a mental shake. There’s no way someone like Damian Russo would remember me. And I shouldn’t want him to.

“She was just leaving,” Markus says.

Damian tears his gaze from mine and glances at my brother. “Is that what you think?”

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