Page 4 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
Chapter 5
Maksim
The sound was small—a soft clinking of crystal—but it cut through the room like a gunshot.
I turned, already anticipating trouble. What I didn’t expect was her.
A girl in glittering onyx, an elegant black mask, balancing a tray like she’d been born to it. But she wasn’t one of Popov’s polished staff. I could see it in the way she held herself—defiant chin, shoulders tight but not submissive. She was out of place here, in this den of wolves.
And she had heard too much.
Popov dismissed her with a flick of his hand, muttering something in Russian about drinks and caterers. Boris studied her longer—long enough it set me on edge. The dirty American diplomat didn’t even glance up.
Perhaps they thought she wasn’t a risk, but I saw it—the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath. She’d caught the words, understood them. “Funding.” “Arms.” “Shipments.” She knew this was no casual meeting.
Our eyes locked as she stood frozen in the doorway.
Fuck.
Something shifted in my chest, pinching and unwelcome. She didn’t look away, even when she should have.
Most people dropped their gaze when I looked at them—didn’t matter if I was simply walking through the grocery store. But this girl? She held it, fear tightening her throat but not breaking her unwavering stare. Bold. Stupid. But bold.
A spark flickered—want tangled with warning.
Immediately, I knew it—she was a liability. I should have turned my back, forgotten her face, let Popov’s men handle it later. But instincts didn’t work that way. My instincts told me she was a problem—and problems, in my world, didn’t walk away alive.
Still, I couldn’t look away from her. She was mesmerizing.
And that was the real danger.
In so many ways.
My “boss” and his associates may have returned to their talk of numbers and shipments, as if she hadn’t just stumbled into the one room she should never have entered—but I couldn’t.
I set my glass down on Popov’s desk, every movement deliberate, and crossed the study with the kind of silence that made most men start praying for their lives. She stiffened as I intercepted her, tray trembling slightly in her grip. Good. She should be afraid.
She didn’t run, though. That caught my attention.
“Leave the drinks,” I murmured low, my voice meant only for her. My accent clipped the words, sharp as a blade.
Her eyes darted to the older men still locked in their dealings, then back to me. She obeyed, placing the tray carefully on a sofa table before slipping toward the door. I followed.
Out in the hallway, the music from the ballroom swelled again, but it didn’t faze her. She stopped, back straight, masked face tilted up in defiance. I stepped closer, crowding her space.
She may have been dressed as a member of the catering party, but she was either new and hadn’t been trained well—or didn’t belong.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I leaned in slightly.
She blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”
Most people gave me answers before I finished the question. Her refusal—it was a crack of light in the darkness I’d lived in too long. I let a slow, dangerous smile pull at my mouth.
“Let’s just say I like to know the names of people who eavesdrop on conversations they shouldn’t.”
Her chin lifted, even though her pulse fluttered wildly in her throat. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just delivering drinks.”
“Mm.” In a calculated move, I leaned in enough that my breath brushed her ear. “And what did you hear while you were just delivering drinks?”
