Page 4 of Emerald Malice

I can only gape in horror as the doors reverse course and the owner of the hand steps in.

The good news is that he’s not security.

The bad news is that I’m pretty sure he’s much, much worse.

“At ease, gentlemen,” he says to the onrushing horde of guards, who promptly freeze at attention like toy soldiers. “She’s with me.”

Then the doors glide closed.

He’s tall, dark, brooding—a dreamboat plagiarized from every single fantasy I’ve ever had. He's wearing a tuxedo, so he's probably a legit wedding guest, but the scowl on his face says he’s not enjoying himself any more than I am.

“Going down?” His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Raspy and low like distant thunder.

“Trying to.”

“It might help if you pressed the right button.” He reaches over and smoothly plucks my wrist to redirect my hand to the adjacent switch. His fingers are surprisingly gentle on my bare skin, though they burn like he’s on fire.

“Oh.” My cheeks go red like they’re on fire. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The doors seal smoothly like they were just waiting for this guy to grant them permission.

“You’re sweating.”

“You’re just full of useful observations, aren’t you?” I mumble.

I immediately regret it—he’s not the reason I’m in this mess to begin with, so he doesn’t deserve my misplaced anger and anxiety.

But if he’s offended, he shows no sign of it.

“Here.” I blink at his outstretched hand. He’s offering me a pristine white handkerchief.

“Thanks,” I mumble again, face still flaming. I take it and dab the sweat from my forehead.

“Friend of the bride?” he asks as I give it back to him.

“Uh, sure? Something like that.” Deflect. For the love of all that is holy, change the subject now! “What, er… what about you?”

The answer comes immediately. “Andrey Kuznetsov. Brother of the groom.”

Shiiiiit.

I’m saved from figuring out what the hell to say to that by another, much worse, problem. Because it seems God isn’t anywhere close to being done toying with me.

The elevator grinds to a halt.

I gasp, grabbing the rail of the elevator as it lurches to an abrupt, jarring stop. The shock makes me forget I’m not supposed to be making eye contact. I look up and his eyes snap onto mine.

God help us all.

Those eyes are too ethereal to be human. The irises are a light silver, rimmed with charcoal gray. Or maybe they’re blue? There’s sort of a bluish, predawn hue, like…

But I can’t quite decide what to call it before my attention is stolen by the rest of his face. The straight, proud nose. The sharp, hollow cheekbones. The diamond-carved jaw, sporting just the faintest brush of five o’clock shadow.

Each feature is a standalone actor in its own right—but the ensemble… Muah. Chef’s kiss.

Someone stole this man directly from my spank bank…

And then trapped me in the elevator with him.

---