Page 7 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Sketchbook? Are you an artist?”

I already know all of this about her, of course, but I feign interest.

“‘Cartoonist’ is my official title,” she says, dipping her head self-consciously. “I freelance, mostly.”

“Interesting line of work.”

“It can be,” she says brightly. “What do you do?”

“A little bit of everything.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s an evasive answer.”

“Don’t women like mysterious men?”

Her blush returns. “I don’t know. Depends on the woman, I suppose.”

She bites her lip to hold back from blurting anything else, but she shouldn’t even bother. Because I already know everything there is to know about Ms. Olivia May Lawrence, twenty-five years old, owner of a Bachelor’s degree in fine arts, half a dozen mostly dead house plants, and an addiction to Hot Cheetos. I know where she shops and where she eats. I know when she leaves her home and when she returns. I know when she sleeps and when she wakes, and hell, I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly what she dreams.

So no, the little kiska doesn’t have to say this particular truth for me to know it, too: that she is exactly the kind of woman who likes mysterious men.

Maybe even dangerous ones.

“I’m Aleksandr, by the way,” I tell her, bailing her out.

“Alexander,” she repeats clunkily.

“Try saying it like you’re not so painfully American,” I laugh. “Or we can just go with ‘Aleks.’”

She winces. “Was it that bad? I take it you’re not American.”

“Not by a long shot.”

“You don’t really have an accent, though.”

“I learned long ago to leave that behind.”

“Hm, also very mysterious. You’re really leaning into the whole persona.”

I tilt my head towards her. “Pot, kettle. You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh, right,” she laughs. “Liv. Short for Olivia. Not nearly as interesting as your name. But I suppose it fits. I’m not too interesting, either.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

I didn’t expect to be so drawn in by her. She’s an attractive woman. Beautiful, even.

She’s just so focused on making herself disappear that her beauty is not immediately apparent.

Her jeans are high-waisted and well-fitted, but they’re covered by a long, baggy white blouse and a wool sweater that feels better suited to a seventy-year-old man than a twenty-five-year-old vixen.

“I’m going to call you Olivia,” I decide.

Livis the awkward, insecure girl with an ugly sweater and hot coffee all over her fingers.

Oliviais the woman underneath all the layers. The one I came to find.

“Oh. Uh, okay, yeah, sure. Totally.” She smiles politely, but beneath it is a layer of confusion, like static electricity interrupting the TV show of her life.

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