Page 67 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“It doesn’t make me anything. I am what I am.”

“And you’re happy with that? With who you are?”

“I am what I am,” I repeat with a grimace. “This is my life. This is who I was born to be. If you’re upset with the turn of events, turn your disapproving look to your brother. His need for vengeance made my life more difficult. I can’t just ignore that. More to the point, I won’t ignore that.”

“Has he tried to contact you?”

“Constantly. My phone is practically ringing off the hook. Your brother wants you back badly.”

She blinks in alarm, processing this tidbit. Interesting—did she truly fear she’d been abandoned already? Perhaps I’m working on her faster than I expected.

“What have you said to him?”

“Nothing. I haven’t answered yet.”

“But—”

“He has to know I mean business. Otherwise, he won’t play ball. And I’ve wasted enough time on the cockroach.”

She leans forward and grips the sides of the table. “Aleks, please, let me speak to him. Just to let him know I’m okay. Just to let me know they’re okay.”

A refusal is on the tip of my tongue. But then she leans forward. The string lights above our heads turn the scene golden and gauzy. Her skin practically glows.

And another idea hits me.

“Maybe we could do more than a phone call,” I say.

She inhales. “What do you mean?”

“I could orchestrate a neutral meeting ground. A face-to-face meeting.”

Her eyes are as big as the lily pads floating nearby. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

“And you’d take me with you?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Her knuckles turn white as she stares at me, muscles knotted tight from head to toe with fervent hope. “Please, Aleks, take me with you. I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

I smile. This is just too fucking easy.

I lean back in my seat and regard her with a cool gaze. “Prove it.”

Her chest is rising and falling hard now. I imagine running my tongue between her breasts. Sucking each nipple into my mouth and savoring the soft moan it would coax from her lips.

She’ll tremble like she did in that plane bathroom. Her body desperate for the release only I can give her.

She knows what to do, even if she hates to admit it. And she knows what she wants to do. She hates that twice as much.

Slowly, Olivia rises from her chair. She smooths out the edges of her dress with trembling fingers. Then, steeling herself, she rounds the table toward me.

She pauses a foot short and meets my eyes for a moment. I see so many things in that look. Fear. Uncertainty.

But also determination. Fire.

She traces a hesitant finger along the rim of the table. I watch it, transfixed. The sensual swoop of her thin wrist. The soft rustle of the tablecloth.

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