Page 5 of An Arranged Virgin for the Bratva

Why can’t I get that stranger out of my mind? There was something about him that drew me in, though. Where I’m accustomed to people either fawning over her or backing down at my coldness, Vladimir stood his ground without forcing his presence. He refused to be completely dismissed, and that made him all the more intriguing.

But all that means nothing. Chances are, I’ll never see Vladimir again.

"Ugh!" I slam my lipstick down, glaring at my reflection.I’m here for a mission, remember?Yet a traitorous part of me wonders what it would be like to let my guard down.

Nope. Not happening. Men like that are nothing but trouble, and I’ve got more than enough of that already.

I straighten my spine and smooth down my dress. With one final, critical glance at my appearance, I turn to face the door. It's time to get back out there and do what I came here to do. No more distractions. No more mysterious strangers with eyes like midnight.

***

I stride out of the bathroom, my heels clicking purposefully against the polished floor. The cacophony of the party washes over me, but I remain focused, my eyes scanning the crowd with laser precision.

"Where are you, Fedor?" I mutter under my breath, searching for my brother's familiar dark blonde hair.

My gaze darts from face to face, cataloging potential allies and threats with the efficiency born of years in this world.

A waiter approaches with a tray of drinks. "Champagne, Miss?"

"No, thank you," I reply coolly, barely sparing him a glance. My plan is to find Fedor and find out if anything interesting happened amidst the Zolotov clan tonight. He thinks I’m paranoid not to trust the Zolotovs, but I keep him close, seeing how his outgoing nature often gets people to open up to him.

And when they do, it’s only a matter of minutes before something interesting comes my way.

Finally, I spot him near the piano, talking to an elderly lady.

As I make my way toward him, I can't help but feel a prickle of awareness along my spine. Is someone watching me?

I turn around, and a familiar figure suddenly materializes in my peripheral vision. Vladimir. My heart rate quickens involuntarily, and I clench my jaw, irritated at my body's betrayal. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, determined not to acknowledge him.

"You left these behind," his deep voice rumbles, closer than I expected.

I turn, my eyebrow arched in practiced disdain. Vladimir stands before me, holding out a small crystal dish. The cherries I'd abandoned at the bar gleam mockingly under the chandeliers.

"How thoughtful," I drawl, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm not particularly fond of fruit that's been manhandled."

Vladimir's lips quirk slightly, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "A shame. They looked lonely without you."

I roll my eyes, fighting the warmth threatening to bloom in my chest. "I'm sure they'll survive the heartbreak."

"Perhaps," he says, his gaze intensifying. "But will you?"

The charged atmosphere between us crackles, and I struggle to maintain my icy composure. "I think I'll manage just fine without a handful of cherries, Mr…?"

"Vladimir," he corrects, his voice a low growl that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Was there something else you needed, Vladimir? Or did you simply miss my charming company?"

“You think you’re charming, huh?” He grins in my direction. The way his eyes crinkle sets my heart racing, gets my hands clammy. And the way my knees threaten to give way sends my anxiety sky-rocketing.

“What I am is busy,” I say, without sparing him a second glance. It’s better if I get the hell away from him as fast as I can before I find myself distracted.

I turn away abruptly, my heart pounding as I resume my path toward Fedor. Vladimir's presence lingers like a shadow, and I clench my fists, furious at my inability to shake off his effect. Each step feels like a battle against an invisible current pulling me back.

Get it together, Sofia.

I find Fedor near the grand piano, his eyes slightly wide, flicking between me and then past me. I don't need to turn around to know what—or rather who—has caught his attention.

"Sofia," Fedor greets, his tone neutral but his gaze questioning. "Was that Vladimir Zolotov making conversation with you?”

---