Page 18 of Sinful Games

“I don’t need advice on getting men, Papa. It’s disgustingly easy; you’re all too eager.”

He laughed heartily. “That’s undeniably true, isn’t it, Drayi?”

“Da, boss,” Drayi nodded. “A dick will always want a pussy.”

I rolled my eyes.

They truly are all the same.

The car finally pulled into the rocky front yard and stopped in front of an imposing Manor, a dark and gloomy mansion with a price tag in the millions of rubles. Tall trees stood sentry around the property, like nature’s own guards, hiding secrets behind closed doors and shuttered windows.

"Remember, Caia, keep that lovely smile on," my father said, adjusting my chin.

I nodded, deliberately avoiding his gaze. The grandeur of the Manor and the weight of his expectations were heavy on my shoulders, leaving me anxious.

I couldn’t wait for the night to end.

Holding the box of homemade blini close to my stomach, I focused on regulating my breathing, willing my heart to calm down.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

We stood outside, waiting for someone to open the door and welcome us.

My father was beside me, Drayi just behind.

To an outsider, it might appear we were a loving family awaiting entry in the snow.

But appearances can be deceiving.

By my side was a drug addict and dealer, and behind me, a sadistic sociopath.

As for me, I was often labeled a whore, an angel to my babushka, and a lost soul in my own eyes.

The massive doors of the Manor loomed before us, adorned with doorknobs shaped like lion's heads, resembling something out of a classic film.

At last, just as my teeth began to chatter from the cold, the door swung open, revealing Igor himself. His displeased frown greeted us, but he gestured for us to enter and promptly took the box from my hands.

“You’re late, Mankiev.”

As I glanced down the grand hallway, I was captivated by the opulence around us. Luxurious carpets lined the floor, intricate paintings adorned the walls, and the soft glow of elegant candlesticks lit our way. It felt like stepping into a Russian version of the Palace of Versailles.

"My apologies, old friend," my father replied, offering a respectful nod. "Caia has prepared homemade blinis just foryou."

I offered Igor a modest smile. "I hope you enjoy desserts. I'm not a great cook, but blinis are my specialty."

Igor’s brow furrowed further. "Your daughter’s too good for you, Mankiev."

My father laughed and gave Igor a hearty pat on the back.

The men continued their conversation as they headed toward what I assumed was the dining room. I was left alone in the hallway, relieved to shed my coat after the chill of the outdoors.

As I carefully hung my coat on the rack, my attention shifted to the stubborn boots clinging to my calves.

Balancing on one high heel, I struggled to remove them, gripping the doorknob for support. Just as I managed to free one foot, someone on the other side of the door pushed it open abruptly.

I lost my balance and, with an undignified yelp, found myself seated on the floor, staring down in bewilderment.

Startled and flustered, I glanced up to find Alexsei Romaniev leaning in the doorway, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. Heat rose to my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the sheer irritation of seeing him yet again. My awkward tumble wasn’t helping, and I quickly kicked off the offending boot, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left.

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