Page 14 of Bound By Hate (Born in Blood)

Gleb, surprisingly, responds to the man back in Russian. I didn’t realize he knew any, being American himself.

The man looks me over in a way that I hate. If I could just slap him …

“What is your name?” the man asks me in a super heavy Russian accent.

“Viktoriya Morozova.”

“Ah. I’ve heard of your father. He is dead, no?”

“Y-yes, he’s dead.” I hate how my voice wavers. I just wasn’t expecting to deal with questions about my father’s death tonight. Unlike Sofiya, who had a close relationship with our mother, and unlike Mila, who was always doted on by our father, I never really had either of my parents. I was expected to be perfect and, thus, was never allowed to be soft like my sisters. Mother only loved soft things, and Father only loved innocent things.

Even though I’m still a virgin, I’m not innocent. Not to the ways of this world anyway. My father wanted me to be his little angel, and when I wasn’t that, he turned his sights onto Sofiya, and when she proved to be softer and our mother bonded withher, Father then looked to Mila to be his princess. His angel. She was.

I never was.

“My mother, too,” I say, regaining my composure. “Care to talk about that?”

He looks taken aback. “It was just a question.”

“A pretty rude question, no?” I mock.

He turns to Gleb and says something sharp in Russian with a shake of his head and stalks off.

“Viktoriya,” Gleb hisses. “You need to show some respect to these men. One of them could make a good husband for you.”

“Did I say I wanted a husband?” Let’s be real—I want a husband. I’m just not desperate enough to subject myself to just any man.

“You’ll need protection.”

“I thought that’s what you were for.” I grab a champagne glass from a passing tray and smirk as I walk away, enjoying the gob-smacked look on Gleb’s face.

I wander deeper into the room, keeping my eyes on the men around me. I’m not about to be made a fool like the last time I was at one of Mikhail’s parties.

The crowd part likes the Red Sea, and a younger man—in his twenties, I assume—comes up to me. “You look like you could get a refill.” He nods at my drink. I look down at it and take in the almost full champagne glass.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Just like the older man, this young one looks taken aback. He was trying to flirt with me. Flirting doesn’t work—I’m not a child easily seduced by candy.

“I’m …” He starts to say, holding his hand out until I cut him off.

“I don’t care what your name is. I don’t care who you are. You look too young to be in any real position of power, so I doubtyou’re high-status enough for me. But what you can do is tell me more about the man who was just in here—Damien Petrov.”

“Why do you want to know who Damien Petrov is?” Aleksander’s voice cuts through the crowd.

With a sigh, I turn to face him, ignoring the young man, who eventually walks away, looking confused. “Why are you still talking to me?”

Aleksander smirks as he crosses his arms. “Am I not allowed to?”

“I told you exactly that a moment ago. In the kitchen. Remember? Or are you just too dense to remember? Got dropped on your head as a baby, perhaps?”

“So far, within the span of just a few minutes, I’ve seen you scorn both Igor Sokolov and Arkadi Stepanov, both men who have more wealth in their pinky finger alone than most people have in their entire lives. And yet, you brushed them both off. Why is that?”

“I didn’t think they were good enough.”

“You barely spoke to them.”

“And within the span of just a few minutes, I knew they weren’t good enough for me. I don’t need to have a lengthy conversation with someone to know whether they’re good enough for me. Now, answer my question. Who is Damien Petrov?”

---