Page 113 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

Even Elise looks excited.

* * *

An hour into the flight, Elise has locked herself in the private bedroom at the back of the plane and Nikolai and I are alone in our seats.

I’m a nervous flier under the best circumstances, but something about the private jet seems even more dangerous. Who is the pilot? I haven’t seen them. And where did the flight attendant get to? I need a drink. Or twelve.

“I’m having flashbacks,” Nikolai says suddenly.

His head is resting back on his seat and his eyes are closed, but I still have the sense he’s watching me. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the man has eyes on the side of his head. How else does he seem to know and be in control of everything?

“You’ve taken a lot of random women to Iceland before?”

He cracks one eye open and peeks over at me. “No, but this is the second time I’ve sat on a plane next to you. And you were just as nervous the first time.”

I force my knee to stop bouncing and take a deep breath. “Is your pilot licensed?”

“You think I’d get in a plane like this with an amateur?”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not,” he snaps. “I have enough money to ensure the best. I don’t settle for less.”

The knot in my chest eases slightly, but I’ll feel better once we’re on the ground.

Except then I’ll be in a foreign country and I have no idea what my job is even going to be.

“What are my responsibilities going to be once we land?” I ask. “I’m obviously trained as an accountant, but I’m willing to—”

“Later.”

I frown at the side of his face. His eyes are closed again. How can he be so goddamned relaxed all the time?

“I don’t want to talk about it later. I want to talk about it now.”

“And I think you have more than enough to worry about without adding shit that doesn’t matter to the list.”

“My job matters to me.”

“You don’t even know what your job is.”

“Exactly! So enlighten me. What do you want?”

At that, Nikolai turns to face me. His smile is lethal, and I groan in bone-deep, panty-dampening frustration.

“Don’t,” I warn. “Do not.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I?” He slides out of his seat so he’s kneeling on the floor.

On instinct, I press my knees together so tightly I’m sure I’ll have bruises. “Yes.”

“I’m not sure I do,” he says, his hands sliding up my shins. “Be explicit. Tell me.”

My heart is pounding in my chest, and my voice comes out breathy and uneven. “I was talking about work. About what you want me to do for—”

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