Page 130 of Dangerous King
"Where's Toni?" Enrico asks.
Grigori's expression hardens again. "Wasn't able to make it," he says simply, not offering any elaboration or apology.
"That's too bad," Enrico says.
Loud laughter makes Enrico go still. His eyes narrow as he searches for the source. Grigori breaks out into loud, knowing laughter, "She's not here."
She?
Possessiveness and jealousy run through me like an unwelcome blade. What kind of woman makes Enrico flinch?
He wipes his brow mockingly, wiping nonexistent sweat off it. "Oh, thank God."
"What did you do now?" Grigori is still laughing.
Enrico exhales like he just dodged a sniper round. "I didn't do anything. I just didn't want to find a knife in my back tonight."
Grigori's grin sharpens. "She's in South America. Finishing a job."
He doesn't elaborate. Enrico mutters under his breath, "She always finishes her jobs."
Then he gently presses my back to move us on so the Arsenyevs can greet the next group of guests.
"She?" I ask, unable to stop my curiosity. "Who'sshe?"
Enrico's jaw flexes. "Grigori's sister," he explains in a tone that sounds like a warning. "Oksana."
With a smirk that can't hide that the woman both impresses and shocks him, he continues, "She once stabbed a man with a dessert fork at a diplomatic gala. Didn't even spill her champagne."
I blink. "Why?"
He chuckles. "Because he called herdevushkalike she was a helpless girl. She doesn't like being underestimated." And then, under his breath, "She was sixteen."
"Oh," I don't know what else to say.
"Grigori has this training camp for his soldiers. Oksana was sneaking in there for years, taking lessons without Grigori's knowledge. She's as unhinged as her brother."
I stare at Enrico, surprised. He could have fooled me; when he introduced Grigori, it sounded like they were friends. He senses my confusion, "Don't get me wrong, I like Grigori, and I respect the hell out of him and his sister, but whenever I'm around either… I find it's better to watch my back."
A shiver moves down my spine, and I look around at the assembled people with different eyes.
Enrico kisses the side of my head, "No worries, I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to spoil the ball for you. Nothing is going to happen tonight."
The ballroom buzzes with laughter and low conversations, crystal glasses clink, champagne bubbles in delicate flutes, and the rustle of satin and silk brushes against marble floors. The energy is electric, polite, but undeniably powerful. And it doesn't take long for me to get lost in the glamor and extravagance of it again. I haven't forgotten Enrico's words, though. I stay close to him, and he keeps his hand firmly and steadily planted at the small of my back, like an anchor.
We move through the crowd like we belong here.
LikeIbelong here.
And for the first time, I don't feel like I'm pretending.
I'm aware of the eyes. Curious, assessing, some with interest, others with suspicion. But none linger long, not when Enrico's gaze is a silent dare to anyone who does. He doesn't have to raise his voice or bare his teeth. His presence alone is enough to demand distance, to draw borders no one dares to cross.
Still, that doesn't stop a few women from trying. I catch them, elegant, poised, lips painted a deep, glossy red, casting sidelong glances at him. One reaches up to adjust the strap of her silk gown with calculated casualness, her gaze drags down Enrico's body like she's already unzipping him with her eyes. Another throws her head back in an exaggerated laugh at something he says—never mind that it wasn't funny—and touches his arm lightly, too familiarly, like she thinks she might be able to leave fingerprints on my man.
And yes.My man.
A slow burn coils in my stomach. Not insecurity, nothing soft or uncertain like that, but something more primal. Fierce. Sharp.
