Page 50 of Brazen King

Because the Russian vixen is dangerously intoxicating, inescapably alluring, and the most interesting, sexiest woman I’ve ever met. And I can’t get enough of her.

Iwillbreak the Sokolovs if that’s what it takes to make her mine, but I would much rather find a peaceful way to get what I want. Because I know how much Natasha’s family means to her. I can see it in the way she defends her father, how fiercely loyal she is to him—even if it means denying her feelings.

“You’re not,” Lance growls, his hands clenching into fists as he glares at me.

And Quinn gasps simultaneously, the shock and fear flitting across her freckled face as her lips part. “You’ve said yourself numerous times how dangerous the Sokolov family can be—especially on their own turf. You can’t possibly be serious,” she protests.

Quinn scoots forward in her chair, her green eyes imploring as she looks between me and Lance.

“It would be suicide,” Lance agrees. “You won’t come back—not after the feud we’ve started.”

My sister pales visibly, her look of horror intensifying as tears spring to her eyes.

“Don’t exaggerate,” I scold him. But he’s not entirely wrong. It’s a gamble, to be sure.

But I don’t care.

I’m willing to risk it because I’m not making any headway with my current tactic. And I’m not interested in simply bedding Natasha. I want so much more than that.

“I’m going. I didn’t call you in here to discuss it or negotiate. I’m simply informing you. Lance, you know what to do if I should be…detained.”

“Killian,” Quinn presses, the fear in her voice constricting my chest.

I don’t like worrying her. But I can’t keep waiting for the tide to shift in my favor.

And if the bruising around my throat is any indication, I suspect I won’t remain lucky enough to best Natasha’s assassination attempts indefinitely. It’s time to make a move.

“Lance, please talk some sense into my idiot brother,” she insists when I simply level her with an even stare. Quinn turns to my foster brother—who’s nearly twice her size.

“If you’re going, I’m not letting you go alone,” he states flatly.

And I grin. “I never thought you would.”

“What?No!” Quinn objects in a huff. “I meant talk him out of going. Not join his idiotic death wish.”

I laugh, and my foster brother’s lips curl into a silent smile. I love my kid sister. In some ways, she’s more mature than the rest of the King men combined. Unfortunately for her, I’m in charge, and nothing she says is going to deter me this time.

“We’ll be fine, Quinn,” I assure her. Rising from my desk, I step around it to pull her in for a hug. “Believe it or not, Boris Sokolov can be a reasonable man. And we both know how charming I can be.”

“Except for the fact that you’ve just spent the past month antagonizing him,” she grumbles. “I can’t believe you think he’ll give you the time of day.”

“Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?” I tease.

“He could send your head back to me in a box,” she suggests, stepping out of my hug to glare up at me. Then her eyes flick to Lance. “Bothyour heads.”

This time, Lance chuckles. “I promise I’ll bring your brother back in one piece.”

Color tinges my sister’s cheeks—a physical reaction she has whenever our foster brother speaks to her directly—and her chin tips impetuously toward the ceiling. “I’ll hold you to that promise. And while you’re at it, you better come home intact as well,” she scolds. Then she storms from the room, grumbling about idiot brothers who never listen to the voice of reason.

It takes some time before I put a strategy into place that satisfies my underboss and right-hand man. Lance spent an entire month’s worth of words arguing with me about how many men I should bring to the Sokolov house with us.

But in the end, we manage to compromise—so it’ll be just the two of us. But we’ll keep our men on standby. Just in case things get out of hand.

The front door of Central Park Tower opens onto a grand atrium with vaulted ceilings, modern gray-leathers seating, and a unique blend of chic elegance and visually intriguing decor. The shapes and angles of the pattern that reflects from the black-and-white floor to the open-concept partition separating the lobby from its lounge gives the space a sense of casual refinement.

And when I step up to the front desk, I’m met by the cool, crisp gaze of the receptionist, whose dark hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense French roll.

“How can I help you, Mr.…?”

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