Page 2 of Captured By the Russian Wolf

But as I sat there, feeling the magnetic pull of this man, I realized it already was.

"I didn't catch your name," Nikita said, breaking the silence. His eyes never left mine, as if searching for something deeper.

"Lily," I replied smoothly. "Lily Donovan."

His lips twitched into a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Lily," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "What a lovely coincidence."

I raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence?"

He leaned back, his gaze never wavering. "That we would meet here tonight."

I swallowed hard. He couldn't know—he couldn't have figured it out so quickly. This was supposed to be an accidental encounter, a carefully staged meeting that would lead me deeper into his world. But Nikita Volkov wasn't just any man. He was dangerous, sharp, and likely two steps ahead of me.

I forced a smile, my heart racing. "I suppose it is."

His eyes flickered over me from head to toe, slow, calculating. "Tell me, Lily," he said, his voice low. "What exactly are you looking for?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. He was testing me, pushing to see how far I'd go, how much I'd reveal. But I couldn't afford to show my hand—not yet.

I met his gaze. Though I felt exposed, I wanted him to feel like I had nothing to hide. "I'm just looking for a drink," I said softly, knowing he'd sniff out that lie—and hopefully go looking for another truth. I drew in a deep breath, subtly directing his attention to my chest.

Nikita's smile widened, but there was nothing warm about it. "Well, then," he murmured, his voice like velvet. "Let's see where the night takes us."

His words were dangerously charged. He had fallen easily into step with the game I was playing. It was risky, but backing out wasn't an option. This was my moment, the chance I'd been waiting for. Nikita Volkov, the man I believed responsible for my husband's death, was right in front of me, and I had to make sure he saw me as nothing more than an intriguing stranger.

Every instinct told me to run, to get out before I was in too deep. But I stayed. I had to.

I took another sip of whiskey, the smoothness doing little to calm my nerves. Nikita watched me, his gaze intense, as thoughhe could see straight through me, as if he could pick apart my carefully constructed facade. But I wouldn't break.

I slid my hand discreetly into my purse, feeling for the small vial I had hidden there. Poison. A single drop would be enough, and no one would be able to link it back to me or any foul play. I had spent weeks planning this—getting close enough to him to slip it into his drink without him noticing, then watching as the mighty Nikita Volkov crumbled before me. The thought should have filled me with satisfaction. But as I felt the cool glass of the vial beneath my fingers, something inside me twisted uncomfortably. I ignored it.

I glanced at him again. All I had to do was wait for the perfect moment, and it would be over. But so far, he wasn't giving me an opening. Besides that, there was something else.

He hadn't said much, but there was something in the way he looked at me that made me pause. He wasn't the monster I had imagined, not yet anyway. There was control in his eyes, yes—danger, absolutely—but there was also something deeper, something I hadn't expected. And that made me hesitate.

"So, Lily," he said after a while, leaning back in his chair. His tone was casual, though the way he watched me was anything but. "What do you do when you're not wandering into dangerous places like this?"

I smiled easily. I had anticipated this question—years ago. "I'm a teacher," I answered honestly, recalling how I'd pivoted into the career once I made up my mind to kill him. "I teach third grade."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "A teacher. And yet, here you are."

"Even teachers need a break sometimes," I replied, keeping my voice light. "Besides, I've never been one to play it safe."

He let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "I can see that."

His eyes lingered on mine, probing, searching. It made my skin prickle with discomfort, but I held his gaze, refusing to look away. My fingers still rested on the vial in my purse, the weight of it a reminder of why I was here.

I took a slow breath. It would be so easy. Just a distraction, something to pull his eyes away for a second, but this man was giving me his full attention. And it paralyzed me. Whether it was the whiskey or something else, I was beginning to feel… intoxicated, like I wanted more.

I couldn't force my mind to come up with a natural response to him. I wanted to make him look away first, but he had been playing this game longer than me. It became too awkward to keep staring into his eyes—I wasn't comfortable with how he was making me feel.

I dropped my eyes to my glass. I knew I couldn't drink too fast, but what else was I supposed to do while I waited for a good opportunity? I felt his eyes on me, not just on my face, either. He was sizing me up again.

He was suspicious—he had to be. A man like Nikita Volkov didn't survive this long without suspecting every new face, every stranger who wandered into his world. But he couldn't know why I was really here. Could he?

"How about you tell me what you're really here for?" he eventually asked, voice dropping deadly low.

I forced a small laugh, though it felt unnatural. "I told you. A drink. That's all."

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