Page 22 of Merciless Queen

Him.

At the back of the room, I see him.

He’s leaning on a cement pillar, hands shoved into his front pockets, completely encased within the room’s dusky haze. He’s unmoving in a place full of movement. Like the rest of the room is blurred while he remains a lack of motion.

Anastasia’s steps come up on my left and she slides a shot of vodka into my hand, humming when following the trajectory of my gaze. “And so she strikes again.”

Holding onto the stranger’s dark gaze, I tap my shot glass against hers and down mine, the burn familiar and welcoming, and I manage it without a blink or a cough. I rest the empty glass along the railing, knowing it’ll be collected by staff once I leave.

“Coming?” I tip my head toward the stairs that’ll take us to the main floor, finally dragging my gaze away from the stranger.

Anastasia smirks. “You know I always enjoy witnessing a man completely lose his mind when around you. It’s funny as fuck. Lead the way.”

Before leaving my place by the railing, I glance in the same direction, checking that the stranger is still there. He is, his gaze heavy, wanting, and a delicious craving I anticipate sating.

Partof me despises how easy that was. It was almosttooeasy. I expected more from her. From the woman who’s been trying to prove herself to be as formidable as the other leaders in this male-driven industry.

Unwittingly, I admire that about her. Coming from someone who’s had to prove themselves numerous times in the past as well. It’s no simple task. Certainly not for the weak.

After only a little bit of staring, my mark is heading down the metal staircase that’ll bring her from the VIP section to the main floor. Her pace is slow, her gaze remaining on me from the distance until reaching the bottom of the steps and getting sucked into the crowd. She presumes she’s the hunter in our interaction, which is a laughable assumption.

At some point, the crowd opens up enough that I see her again, and my heart stutters. A Volkov shouldn’t be this sexy. Appreciating her body makes me want to hurl myself off the nearest cliff for the betrayal to my roots.

Maybe I will after this. Right after I explore her.

I take my time studying her, remaining in my slouched position against the stone post, while pretending to feign interest.

Her legs are long, toned with defined muscle from years of training. There’s a small tattoo on her right knee, and since the pictures I snapped don’t lie, I know they’re a gathering of stars. Intel from spies stationed in Russia years prior have explained that tattoos in the Bratva are indicative of the kinds of criminal they are, and that the stars mean she kneels to no one due to her role. I wonder exactly how many Vanessa’s gained since the rat’s death; what kind of leader she’s become.

Not that it matters.

Vanessa will pay for Ursin Volkov’s crimes because of vows made long ago. And I’m the first step in wiping her out.

The red bustier dress rides high on her thigh and shapes like a second skin to her hips, her stomach, and her chest. There’s silk ribbon tying the front together and I imagine undoing those strings, one agonizing tug at a time. To baring her breasts right before taking a knife to that very chest.

To ending her.

Lust and murder combine in a wicked fantasy I have no right in imagining.

With every pace my way, she has no idea she’s walking toward her death. The plan is simple: become the man she goes home with because once I’m inside enemy lines—her property, to be specific—I’ll have easy access to taking her out. Attacking her on the street is too public, and sneaking into her home could end badly in many ways. This way, she’s walking to her death unknowingly into her domain.

Painted red lips that can cause a man’s mind to wander—particularly mine—curl up in the corner but then she genuinely surprises me. Instead of continuing my way, she stops in themiddle of the dance floor where she’s surrounded by dozens of people.

They all blur in favour of her. I tell myself it’s because she owns my focus, but I know that’s not the case. It’s the attention she commands as the music sucks her up and takes her elsewhere. Exactly like a siren, and knowing what I do, she’s as deadly as one too.

Even from afar, I can make out the details of what she looks like. She’s painstakingly beautiful; more so than pictures reveal. Her cheeks are pale in an ethereal way, so opposite from the tanned skin of the Italian women I’m used to. And then there’s her eyes. First captivated through images, and now from the short distance between us. They’re a shade of blue so deep, it reminds me of the night sky that blankets the hills surrounding the vineyards in Tuscany.

She’s the kind of woman that men would go to war for, just to earn a kiss from her. The kind that could send thousands into battle with a single smile. She’s the Merciless Queen, as many have referred to her as. Some, right before they’re slain by her.

While a temptation, her mouth can cause so much death and destruction with a mere whisper. Her skin is the very colour of death itself. And her eyes…they’re a killer’s eyes. Dark enough they might look like the lovely Italian night sky, but emotionless as the snowy Russian mountains too.

She spins so her back is facing me, her ass rocking with the beat. I nudge off the stone post as some asshole steps in the way and grasps her hips, pulling her against him. Her dark hair flicks in his face as she peeks over her shoulder, and a disturbing rumble vibrates through my stomach.

But it’s not him she ends up glancing toward; it’s me. Her eyes sparkle with mischief beneath the room’s dim lights. She winks once before turning back around and winding her arms around the guy’s neck.

Even though she has no clue, everything she’s doing—every action, every tick, every look—indicates who she is, and what I’ll have to use against her. It’s the number one rule when hunting another human: to learn them so well, inside and out, their every move becomes predictable.

And hers is to try to make me jealous. It’s cute. Unfortunately, I need to play her game to ensure I’m the one inside her mansion tonight, and not her current dance partner, or anyone else who she feels could do better. Which means, letting her believe her petty games have the effect she’s hoping they do.

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