Page 8 of Imperfect Desires

He’s wearing a fitted black jacket over a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the hard cut of his forearms. There’s a faint scar along his jawline and another at the corner of his temple. He looks dangerous. Like someone who’s lived through more violence than anyone should survive.

My gaze drops to his hand wrapped around the glass. His knuckles are rough, the skin scarred and calloused. Hands that have done terrible things. Hands that are steady now. Controlled.

I wonder if he’s capable of being anything else.

"Alina."

My gaze snaps up, heat rising beneath my cheeks as I realize I’ve been staring at Lev.

"Would you like more tea?" Viktor asks.

I clear my throat. "No, thank you."

Lev’s mouth curves faintly, but his gaze remains steady on the rim of his glass.

Zasha sits on Viktor’s right, his dark gaze heavy and assessing. Yelena is next to me, her expression perfectly composed as she traces the rim of her glass with one finger.

"I’ll need you at the meeting with my father tomorrow morning," Viktor says to Lev.

Lev nods once. "Of course."

My gaze trails back to him again. He’s so precise. His movements are so measured. It’s unnerving.

I’m used to dangerous men. Our father is the head of the Makarov bratva. I grew up surrounded by men who kill without hesitation—men who would slit someone’s throat over a perceived slight. But Lev seems different.

He seems dangerous in a way that’s more controlled. Calculated. He’s the kind of threat you don’t see coming until it’s too late. He finishes his whiskey and sets the glass down with a quiet click. The sound scrapes against my nerves.

"I should go," Lev says. As he stands, the scrape of his chair against the marble sends a shiver down my spine.

"It has been really nice to meet you both," Zasha says, standing as well. He gives Yelena a charming smile and then nods toward me. "I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other."

Lev doesn’t smile. His green eyes catch mine for the briefest second before sliding away.

"Goodnight," he says, his voice low and rough.

"Goodnight," I whisper back.

Zasha and Lev move toward the door. Lev’s hand brushes against the handle as he opens it, letting the cold night air slip inside. The chill raises goosebumps along my arms.

Lev’s gaze flicks toward me one last time before he steps through the door. Then they’re gone.

I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The silk sheets feel cool against my skin, with the heavy blanket draped loosely across my hips. Outside, the trees sway and murmur faintly beneath the dark sky. The occasional sound of branches dancing in the wind drifts up toward the windows.

My mind won’t stop spinning.

It’s not just about Viktor—though I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that my brother is alive. I spent my whole life mourning him, trying to fill the space he left behind. And now he’s here. Whole and alive and… different. Colder. Sharper.

And then there’s Lev.

My pulse quickens just thinking about him.

The way his hand wrapped around that whiskey glass. The faint scar along the edge of his mouth. The weight of his gaze when he looked at me. The way my chest tightened when he touched my wrist.

It’s stupid. I’ve been around dangerous men my whole life. I know better than to feel anything toward someone like Lev. He’s quiet and hard and dangerous. He works for my brother. He’s loyal to Viktor.

So why can’t I stop thinking about him?

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