Page 3 of An Arranged Virgin for the Bratva

I force a polite smile, acutely aware of Lara's eyes on me. "Well, now you have. I hope I haven't disappointed."

"Not at all," Dima says, clapping me on the shoulder. "In fact, I hope we'll be seeing more of you. Family is important, after all. We’d also love to introduce you to our sister, Sofia. But…” He scans the room. “I simply don’t know where she is.”

“She’s blonde, tall, and a total ice queen.” Fedor grins, waving his hands to indicate her height. “You’ll see her somewhere, biting someone’s head off, probably.”

“Fedor!” Natalia playfully whacks him on the arm while the rest of the crew holds back their laughter.

“Wait, I think I see her.” Artyom looks behind me.

I bristle, not bothering to turn around, fighting the urge to run off without another word. "Don’t worry about it," I reply, my mind already searching for an escape route. "She must be busy. I’ll see her around later. If you'll excuse me, I think I see Ivan."

I make my excuses and slip away from the Orlov’s enthusiastic hospitality, seeking refuge at the bar on the far side of the room. I weave through the crowded space, dodging mingling guests and raucous clusters of family. A few call out greetings or raise their glasses, but I keep my eyes averted and my responses clipped.

At last I reach the relative peace of the bar. As I wait for the bartender, I lean back against the counter and observe the lively party. Laughter and warmth fill the grand room, yet I feel disconnected, an outsider peering in through frosted glass.

"Vodka, neat," I tell the bartender when he finally makes his way over. I lean back against the counter again.

“You’re blocking the cherries,” I hear a husky voice from my right. I look, and the woman standing beside me steals the breath from my lungs. Her slender figure is sheathed in an elegant black dress, contouring subtle curves. Blonde hair cascades down her back in a sleek curtain, contrasting vividly with her dress. She’s all high cheekbones and rosy red lips. As she lifts an elegant hand adorned with diamonds to point at thecherries, I catch a glimpse of her emerald green eyes, contrasting sharply with the black of her dress.

“Excuse me?” I find myself saying, utterly forgetting what she said.

“The cherries.” She rolls her eyes at me.

I quickly move to let her reach, and just then, the server returns with my drink. I accept it, and turn back to the woman, who is now lecturing the server on how she specifically requested no sugar syrup in her cocktail.

Blonde, tall, ice-cold, and biting off a head. Something tells me she’s an Orlov.

Sofia Orlov, to be exact.

I feel an inexplicable pull toward her, my feet carrying me closer to her before I can process the sudden quickening of my pulse.

I sidle up to the bar, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "Water, iced," I tell the bartender, my voice gruffer than intended.

The woman beside me doesn't turn, but I catch her glancing at me from the corner of her eye. Her gaze flickers to the drink in my hand before coolly turning back to survey the scene.

As she turns, I catch a trace of her scent—cool and floral like a frost-kissed garden.

"I don't believe we've met," I say bluntly. Subtlety has never been my strong suit.

She arches one delicate brow. "We haven't.”

I note she doesn’t offer her name. This is a first. Usually, when I strike up a conversation, I have the woman’s number inhand within minutes. Her casual dismissal only serves to pique my interest further. I’m used to women falling at my feet, enticed by either the hundred thousand dollar watch I wear on my wrist or my name, should they have it. But she simply stands there, unimpressed and untouchable.

I lean against the bar, studying her profile as she takes a sip of her drink. “Not a fan of small talk, are you?”

She shrugs nonchalantly, her indifference a stark contrast to the usual flirtatious encounters I'm accustomed to. "Small talk tends to bore me. If this is your attempt at it, you should probably stop now."

“So, what would you rather discuss? Nuclear war?” I bite back.

“Sure.” She turns to face me now, and I see a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. But then I think I could have imagined it, from how coolly she looks at me. “But I doubt you’d have much to add on that topic.”

“Didn’t someone tell you it’s rude to make assumptions?” My lip curves into a small smile.

“Well… do you?” she shrugs.

“Do I what?” I ask, instantly.

Sherollsher eyes at me. “Know much about nuclear war?”

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