Page 57 of Savage Vows
She just nods, stunned.
That’s when Liam appears at our side, grinning. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost. That’s Aleksandr Morozov. Family’s old Moscow money. His father practically runs half the city’s construction. And yes, he’s single. Hide your hearts.”
I glance at Bella. She’s still watching Aleksandr, who pauses to greet Maksim with a handshake and a joke that makes three people laugh at once.
“Oh, no,” Bella mutters under her breath. “That’s definitely him.”
I nudge her, teasing. “You could do worse.”
She shoots me a look, but there’s color in her cheeks now. “Worse, maybe. But I don’t need trouble, Adriana.”
Liam winks. “With Morozov, you don’t get to choose.”
As Aleksandr’s gaze sweeps the crowd and briefly lands on us, Bella straightens her dress, fighting a smile she doesn’t quite win. And for the first time all evening, I forget about the weight in my chest and just enjoy watching someone else squirm.
Liam leans in, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Word is, Aleksandr’s family is pushing him to get serious. They’re eyeingup all the eligible daughters, even the ones who know better. Watch yourself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Please. He’s all yours.”
I chuckle, turning to look out at the crowd, and the air freezes in my chest.
Standing across the room, just beyond a cluster of laughing guests, is the man from Serrano’s club—the one I ran into.
No. There’s no way he’d remember me. That night, I was just a shadow passing through. I feel the old fear prickle along my spine. I look away, telling myself it’s nothing.
But when I risk another glance, his gaze is still on me. Unblinking. Like he knows something I don’t.
I make myself move, weaving through the press of bodies, past laughter and clinking glasses, trying to disappear into the crowd. My heart pounds too hard, the room tilting slightly around me.
Ahead, I spot Dante in conversation with Aleksandr Morozov—two men who could not be more different. Dante stands solid and severe, all contained force and sharp edges, dark hair falling over eyes that miss nothing. Aleksandr, by contrast, is taller, broader, his stance loose and almost lazy, but the kind of lazy that comes from absolute confidence. There’s an easy arrogance in the way he smiles, but his eyes are cold and clever, always searching.
I can feel the tension between them, the subtle weighing and measuring that happens when two powerful men share a room.
Dante turns, spotting me. His expression changes, softens just slightly. He gestures me closer. “Adriana, come meet Aleksandr Morozov?—”
But I can’t. Not now. The memory of the club—the man watching me, that look—still clings to my skin. I murmur an excuse, brushing past them both, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes, especially not Dante’s.
I catch Aleksandr’s faint knowing smile as I pass, the briefest flicker of interest. For a second, it feels like every secret I’ve tried to hide is written on my face.
The music and light behind me blur as I slip outside, moving fast enough that the cool air stings my cheeks. I find one of Dante’s men near the driveway—he’s tall, broad, and trying to look invisible against the stone wall. He straightens as I approach.
“I need to go home,” I say, voice breathless.
He gives me a skeptical once-over. “It’s early, Mrs. Volkova.”
“I’m not feeling well.” I try to keep my tone calm, but my hands tremble at my sides. “Please. I just need to leave.”
He hesitates, then pulls out his phone, muttering in Russian. He keeps glancing at me, clearly waiting for permission from somewhere higher up. After a moment, he puts the phone away and nods. “Car will be here in five minutes. I will take you.”
Relief floods through me. I quickly text Bella:I’m not feeling well, I’m heading home. I’m sorry, don’t worry.
Minutes later, the car pulls away from the party, and I press my forehead to the glass, breathing out the tension. The city slides by in a blur. When we reach the Volkov house, I thank the driver and hurry inside, shoes in hand, the silence so thick it makes my ears ring.
No one calls out. No footsteps, no distant voices. I let the door shut behind me and climb the stairs, desperate just to be alone,to gather myself. The night and the memories crowd in—those eyes in the club, the stranger at the party, all of it heavy and impossible.
I make it to my room and close the door behind me. The house feels cavernous, empty. I barely have time to sit on the edge of my bed when the door opens again.
Dante stands in the doorway, the light behind him catching at the sharp line of his jaw, the dark of his suit, the intensity in his eyes.
