Page 30 of Imperfect Desires

“It is.” Viktor’s gaze sharpens. “The Greeks have approached me.”

I stiffen. “About what?”

Viktor’s eyes flick toward me. “An alliance. Through marriage.”

My chest tightens.

Zasha raises an eyebrow. “Which one of your sisters?”

I keep my mouth shut. My heart is hammering beneath my ribs.

“Yelena,” he says.

I exhale a sharp rush of breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

A wave of relief cuts through me—followed almost immediately by disgust. I shouldn’t feel relieved. That’s not normal. If it had been Alina—if Viktor had said her name—this whole situation would have been taken out of my hands. It would have been settled because she would have been out of reach permanently. And maybe that’s what I need.

But he said Yelena, which means Alina is still… open, still a possibility. That realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Do you think it’s a smart move?” Zasha asks.

“It’s strategic,” Viktor says. “The Greeks are growing in strength. A marriage between the families would solidify our alliance.”

“And Yelena is willing?”

“She hasn’t been told yet,” Viktor says.

“And Alina?” Zasha asks.

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. “She’s not involved. But I’m sure she will feel the separation. They have been inseparable from birth.”

After the conversation, I step out onto the balcony to clear my head.

The night is cold, and the quiet hum of distant traffic barely registers over the storm twisting through my chest.

My hands are still curled into fists.

I hate how relieved I felt when Viktor said Yelena’s name. Hate how part of me wanted it to be Alina just to have the temptation removed. I hate that I don’t want her with someone else. That the idea of her in another man’s bed makes my blood boil.

I take a long drink from the glass in my hand.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

I turn toward the voice.

Alina stands in the doorway of the balcony, framed by the soft light spilling from the reception hall.

She’s holding a glass of champagne, her lips stained pink from the drink. Her dark green dress hugs her body like a second skin, and her hair falls over one shoulder in loose waves.

She steps toward me, the soft click of her heels barely audible against the marble.

I don’t move.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” I say. “You don’t strike me as the type who parties all night.”

She shrugs, her blue eyes sharp on mine. “I was going to leave.”

“But?”

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