Page 122 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I pick out long black pants and a white, one-shouldered blouse. I keep my hair loose and my makeup minimal.

I don’t really care what he thinks of me—that’s what I tell myself, at least, and for the most part, I believe it—but I figure I have a better chance of getting information out of Aleks if I look like I’m trying.

And information is exactly what I need.

Finding Isabella’s scarf in that dusty bedroom has changed everything. I have to play my part just right. He can’t know that I know.

The problem is that Aleks is the most perceptive man I’ve ever met. More to the point, he does this kind of stuff all the time. The power games, the lies and deceptions.

Me? I’m a cartoonist, for God’s sake. Cloak-and-dagger spy movie shit isn’t exactly my specialty.

The longer I sit in my room, though, the slower the clock moves. I’m going to go crazy if I watch the second hand keep dragging its way through mud.

So I head to the dining room five minutes early.

The table is fully set, wine already decanted, but Aleks isn’t there when I walk in. I take a seat and try to settle my growing nerves. You can do this. You have to do this. You will do this.

I’m reaching for the glass of water in front of me when I notice his shadow fall across the table. True to form, I promptly knock the glass over and drench the thick tablecloth.

“God-fucking-shit-dammit!” I stammer, lunging for a napkin and upending my chair in the process. It’s becoming a problem.

“Maybe I should wear a collar with bells,” he suggests as I scramble in every direction at once. “Like a cat.”

I bite down on my lip. “Sorry.”

He waves away my apology. “I already warned the staff they’d have a little extra clean-up after tonight’s dinner. You do have a track record.”

“Shut up. Did you really tell them that?”

He smiles. “You can always ask one of them and find out.”

I decide that he’s kidding and take my seat. He sits opposite me and fills up his wine glass from the decanter, then swirls it and brings it to his nose. His eyes remain fixed on me as he takes a sip.

“Beautiful. Full-bodied. Delicate.” He smirks. “I’m talking about the wine, of course.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course you are.”

“Would you like to try it?” He holds the decanter out towards me.

I shake my head. “Not much of a booze aficionado.”

“No? What is your poison of choice?”

“On the rare occasions that I do drink, probably beer.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess: your father drank beer?”

“Uh, yeah.” I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

He just nods as though, yet again, I’ve proved how predictable I am. “Mhmm.”

“What?” I snap.

“You don’t actually like the taste of beer,” he sighs. “You just drink it because it reminds you of him.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Is this you proving how easily you can read me?”

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