Page 2 of Stricken

For an instant, I'm left alone next to a set of empty chairs tucked into the corner with the dying light of the day blanketing the Pacific on the horizon. But mostly, it's the weight of unfinished business pressing down on my shoulders, turning my suit jacket into one made of material even I can't bear.

"We should go," Ivan says in Russian, quietly emerging from the backdrop of the lounge. For all his height and muscle, he has this strange ability to move like air itself.

"You go first," I reply. "I will be up soon."

"Are you certain?"

I nod.

He heads for the elevators without looking at me and I'm relieved that I can be a regular man for once. A man who doesn't need a bodyguard. I know it's best to leave sooner than later, and a part of me is ready to go. But my gaze wanders across the crowded lounge, drifting from face to face, then snags on a man at the far end, all dark hair and carved features.

He's exactly the type of man I'd fuck.

I shouldn't, of course, indulge. But nothing stops me from striding over to a gleaming bar and sinking onto a barstool. I can watch him for a little while before I retreat to my suite upstairs. Watching has never hurt anyone, right?

The bartender immediately approaches to take my drink order. "Sir? What can I get you?"

"Whiskey. Neat."

He nods once and steps away to prepare it while I glance at the mirrored wall on the other side of the bar lined with several rows of filled-up shelves. In the small space between those shelves, there's a reflection. It's mine and it stares back from the mirror behind the bottles, a blend of sharp angles and storm-gray eyes. The same eyes as my mother's.

And just like that, memories claw at my throat. Her smile, warm as summer sun. The way she'd sing me to sleep, voice soft as dandelion fluff. Then that final glimpse of her that I'd see in my nightmares, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. I don't know if that's what she looked like when she died. It's what my imagination gives me every time I think about her last moments. But I do know she wasn't supposed to be gone so soon.

"Sir?" The bartender's smooth voice jolts me back to the present as he sets my drink in front of me.

"Put it on my tab. Room three-one-six."

"Got it." He's gone again, leaving me alone with my thoughts as they spin around in my head. My palm hugs the tumbler and liquid oblivion slides down my throat, searing and familiar. But it fails to burn away the ache in my chest. The hole that rips wider with every passing year since Mama died.

I drain the glass in three practiced swallows, wanting to forget at least for tonight. My eyes drift back to the lounge and the man on the other side of the room. He is alone by the window, sitting in a chair, an-almost empty drink in his hand.

Our stares tangle, a crackle of electricity arcing between us, even though we are far away. He doesn't look away, a hint of a cocky smirk playing at the corner of his sculpted mouth. Bold. Brazen. Just the way I like them.

Heat licks through my veins, chasing the ice in my heart. It's been too long since I felt the scorching press of skin on skin.

He lifts his glass in a silent salute, an invitation shimmering in eyes the color of a winter lake. Dangerous. Tempting.

Fuck it.

I'm a stranger in this city. Not many here know how Vlad Solovey looks. For one night, I can be someone else. Leave the ghosts behind and burn in the flames of fleeting pleasure I seldom allow myself.

Ignoring the warning twist in my gut, I raise my tumbler slightly in an answering salute.

Time ticks by… slowly and painfully.

Then he stands to his feet and strolls over to the bar, and with every step he's taking in my direction, I feel more exposed. I don't know how old he is, but he looks around my age, give or take a few years. He's around my height too, perhaps an inch shorter, with an athletic build and powerful shoulders. His hair, midnight dark and wavy, is slicked back and the delicate curls at the ends brush against the tanned skin of his neck and the crisp white crease of his shirt in a way that has my stomach churn in the most exquisite way.

He casually leans an elbow against the polished wood of the bar, angling his body toward me. An expensive cuff link winks at me. Up close, he's even more striking—all classic features and smoldering intensity. And that cleft in his chin adds a dangerously charming edge to his appearance.

My heart begins to race and I'm already imagining all the ways I could take him apart behind closed doors.

"Buy you a drink?" the stranger asks. His voice is low like a rumble of distant thunder.

Sparks dance along my spine at the sound.

Saying no is what I would have done just a few years ago or if my father was still alive.

This vice was my most guarded secret from him. Hard to hide and hard to resist too. But Yuri Solovey is six feet under and I've become careless. I've become a man who's tired of pretending to be something he's not. And if my little brother is finally living the life he wants, there's no reason I shouldn't allow myself a night of fun.

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