Page 27 of Scarlet Vows
Shit.
“Don’t worry, I’m not saying a thing,” I say. “Obviously, I’ll have to tell Demyan about the Belov Bratva and my inheritance, but the less he knows about the conditions surrounding that, the better.”
Especially the part where I’ll be marrying his little sister.
My head spins at the thought, at how she steamrolled me into this.
“Take me to your place,” she says.
“Hell no.”
Alina looks at me calmly. “We can talk privately, and don’t worry. I told you. Your virtue is safe.”
“Lucky yours is, too,” I shoot back. “But my place? I’ll take you home, and we can talk there.”
“Not if we’re going to figure this out.” She finishes her drink and stands. “Come on.”
Fucking hell, this girl…
I down my drink, steal a piece of cheese, drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table as an added tip, and then I follow her out.
My duplex apartment’salways been a little too big. I still prefer my old one-bedroom I had in my early twenties, but Demyan and his sister are a lot alike.
Stubborn.
Willful.
Generous.
Oh, she’s softer and much readier with a smile. Her eyes are like her mother’s, but the way they change when she’s in a heightened emotional state is just pure Alina.
“Water?” I stand in the kitchen of my open-plan kitchen.
Upstairs is my study and the primary suite. Down here is the kitchen, living area, and two other bedrooms.
One I’ve set up as a guest room because occasionally a friend may stay over. The other is to work out in when I need to let off extra steam. I can run in the neighborhood if I choose, but I like the idea of stealing an hour or twenty minutes or whatever right here when I need it.
“Water?” she echoes.
“I’ve got OJ, water, tea, coffee, vodka, whiskey, and wine. I think there’s gin somewhere.”
“I’ll have whiskey.” She looks around, her gaze on the big floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the large balcony and the view of Chicago.
Then she wanders off, going room to room like an inspector. She even goes upstairs.
When she returns, I’m on the sofa, her glass ready for her, the bottle on the coffee table, and the desserts—a tiramisu and some kind of wild-looking cake with berries, chocolate, cream, and a sauce—sit there as well.
Alina smiles, and I tuck it away inside me as she takes in the mini spread.
Her smiles, I learned since Max’s death, are some of the most precious things in this world.
There was a time when they were rare, so rare I feared I may never see another, at least not a real one.
I don’t give a fuck if her smile is in response to the dessert. It’s a real smile, full of happiness. It’s, in short, a treasure.
“This is a Yegorov building, isn’t it?”
A low beat of unease passes through me, and I sip the whiskey as she sits next to me, tucking her legs under her. She reaches over to take a bite of the chocolate and fruit thing.
