Page 18 of 10 Days to Ruin

He studies me, those blue eyes missing nothing: not the tremor in my hands, not the way my pulse flutters at my throat. “You’re shaking.”

“Adrenaline crash.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Happens after you narrowly avoid death-by-murderous-stranger in a bathroom stall.”

“Ah.” He swirls his champagne. The liquid catches the light like liquid gold. “And here I thought it was my charm.”

“Your ‘charm’ almost got me fired.”

“But not killed.”

“Not yet.”

He hums, a sound that vibrates in my bones. “You’re still standing,ptichka. That’s more than most people manage.”

The nickname—little bird—sinks its claws into me. I want to hate it. I want to hatehim. So why can’t I?

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Mama never told me this part of the fairy tale.

I wasn’t supposed towantthe monster.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask suddenly. “The Bratva doesn’t need alliances. You could’ve taken the Greeks out years ago.”

Something flashes in his eyes—a shadow, there and gone. “Careful, reporter. Curiosity killed the cat.”

“And satisfaction brought it back.” I tilt my chin up, defiant. “Don’t avoid the question. Why marry me? Why not just put a bullet in my father’s skull and take what you want?”

For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then he leans in, his breath grazing my ear. “Because bullets make martyrs,ptichka. But marriages? Those make empires.”

The words slither down my spine. Before I can respond, he straightens, his mask of icy control back in place. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a request.

The orchestra swells as he tows me onto the floor, his hand settling at the small of my back like we’ve done this a million times before. We move in sync, this fucked-up parody of happily-ever-after-in-the-making. It’s treacherously easy to let him lead me around.

“You’re afraid,” he observes, spinning me out before reeling me back in.

“Of you?” I laugh, bitter. “Please.”

“Of what you’ll become.” His grip tightens. “Of how much you want to burn it all down.”

There’s not much in this world that stings more than the unvarnished truth—but the truth as told by Sasha Ozerov might be one of those things. Because he’s right—I’m not just afraid of him, or Leander, or the shackles of this arrangement.

I’m afraid of the part of me that’s still Ariana Makris, the girl who learned to lie before she learned to ride a bike. The part that knows how to survive in the dark.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper.

“Oh, I know enough. I know you taste like peaches and bad decisions. I know how it sounds when you come undone. And I know—” He dips me suddenly, his lips brushing my jaw. “—you’d rather die than let either of us win.”

The music crescendos. Around us, the crowd applauds the band, oblivious to the war waging in the center of the dance floor.

When he pulls me upright, I’m trembling for real now. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything.” His finger traces the line of my hip, possessive. “Starting with the truth you’re hiding from yourself.”

“Which is?”

“That when you said ‘Or else what?’ in that bathroom…” His grip tightens, sending electricity through my veins. “You weren’t afraid I’d kill you.”

The crowd melts away. There’s only his breath on my collarbone, his lips grazing the hammering pulse at my throat.

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