Page 5 of Emerald Malice

“Oh my God.” I fall back on my initial strategy of attacking the foyer button like a manic woodpecker. “Oh my God, what’s happening? What’s?—”

I freeze when his hand comes down on mine for the second time. “Once again, you’re missing the target.” He redirects me to the emergency bell in the bottom corner.

I push it and it turns red. Then…

Nothing.

“What now?”

“They’ll get to it.” He couldn’t sound less concerned.

Meanwhile, I’m wondering what kind of fee the dress rental place is gonna charge for excessive sweat stains. But even that worry fades away, because I’m starting to get light-headed, too. And this time, it has nothing to do with him.

“When?” I croak. “When will they get to it?”

“Are you alright?”

No! I want to scream. No, I’m not alright at all. My best friend is a lunatic and I should absolutely not be in this place and you are way too good-looking to be real and my throat feels like it’s closing up on me and are the lights getting dimmer or is it just me and is it getting hotter and hotter in here or is that just me…?

I stumble back and my ass hits the wall and I scream before I can choke it back. “I-I-I… don’t do well in confined spaces,” I manage to stammer.

“You’re claustrophobic?”

“I do believe that is the technical term, yes.” I feel giddy and insane as I fan myself with one hand. “My Lord, it’s hot in here. Are you hot?”

I can’t tell if he’s amused or completely disgusted by me. “You need to stay calm. Breathe.”

“The whole thing about being claustrophobic is that you can’t breathe when you want to.”

The emergency bell button suddenly flashes. There’s some static and then a voice comes through, high and reedy. “Apologies for the inconvenience, folks. We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. The elevators will be up and running in the next ten to fifteen minutes.”

Great. I’m trapped in a steel box hovering several stories above ground with the brother of the groom whose wedding I was forced into crashing.

Somewhere overhead, God is laughing his ass off.

2

ANDREY

As far as decoys go, she’s a damn good one.

Looks-wise, at least. She’s a siren with seductive green eyes and dark hair that falls in voluminous waves down the open back of her very sexy, emerald green dress.

Of course, if we’re taking into account skills, I’m not sure she meets the standards of Nikolai Rostov’s usual go-to for fucking with my operation.

This girl has no skills to speak of.

She’s clutching the walls of the elevator, nails digging into the brocaded padding as her chest rises and falls heavily. Either this is all part of the ruse—if in fact she is working for Nikolai—or she’s genuinely claustrophobic.

“… ten to fifteen minutes,” she mutters on repeat. “Ten to fifteen minutes… Ten to fifteen…”

I clear my throat loudly and she flinches, her eyes snapping to mine.

No, she’s no decoy. Say what you want about Nikolai Rostov, but his ploys usually have a little more finesse.

Although, considering the call I received from my number-two, Shura, minutes ago—the whole reason I’m even in this elevator with this skittish little lastochka—I might need to reconsider that opinion.

Blyat’, this wedding has been a disaster so far.

---