Page 8 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

She isn’t used to men like me. Enigmas.

I look down at the cup in my hand. “This coffee tastes like cat piss.”

She snorts with laughter, hiding it behind her coffee-stained hand. “It wouldn’t be high on my list of memorable cups, no. But it’s airport coffee, what did you expect?”

“If you know where you’re going, you can always find what you’re looking for,” I tell her. “Even in an airport.”

She narrows her eyes. “Where is this magical coffee utopia you speak of?”

“Do you want to come with me and find out?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Wait, really?”

“Why not?” I ask. “You’ve got a five-hour delay, same as me. That’s going to be hard to do without a proper caffeine hit.”

She hesitates. Her thoughts are written in her eyes, clear as day. She finds me attractive, but I’m a stranger. She wants to come, but she isn’t the kind of girl who takes risks.

Olivia is an open book.

And I want to rip her apart—page, by page, by page.

I see the moment she makes up her mind. She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw. “Okay. Let’s go.”

When I stand up, her eyes trail up slowly, growing wider with every inch. She’s not the first woman to ogle me like that. But she is the first one in a while that I’ve given a fuck about.

Just not for the reasons she suspects.

She blinks and looks away the moment she realizes I’m watching her watch me. Straightening her spine, she stands. “Lead the way,” she announces.

I smirk. “I always do.”

I shepherd her through the crowds towards the airport’s private lounge. It’s not the one for frequent flyers or harried businessmen. This one is tucked away behind a nondescript, pockmarked door with no obvious signage.

You have to know people to get in here.

I open the door and gesture for her to go first. She stops at the threshold and wrinkles her nose. “I didn’t know the best coffee in the airport was to be found in the janitor’s closet—oh.”

The words die on her lips when she sees what’s inside. I watch her, mesmerized, as the subtle glow of the lights reflecting off the bronze plaque light up her face like a constellation.

“Um, Aleks? I… don’t think I belong here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I think you need, like, some kinda exclusive membership to get in. They’re gonna take one look at me and call in the Peasant Removal SWAT team.”

“It’s a good thing you’re with me, then.” I reach into my pocket and retrieve my platinum membership card. “Come on.”

I usher her inward and pull the door closed behind us. The hubbub of the airport fades away at once. It’s quiet and still in here.

We round the corner and come into view of a burnished steel front desk, stretching in a smooth arc. Behind it, a clerk jumps to attention. I show him my card and he bows, then presses his thumb to a scanner just out of sight. There’s a pleasant hum, followed by a door to the left swinging open on silent hinges.

Olivia’s eyes go round as we step further inside.

The lounge is a cavernous, free-flowing space broken into open pods that mimic cozy living rooms. Deep, lush sofas bask in the sunlight, fresh-cut flowers gleam on each table, and mahogany desks bear cups of golden pens.

Off to one side is a sprawling buffet counter. I spy crab and lobster, jambalaya, omelets, half a dozen different soups bubbling in elegant pots. The smell is heavenly.

One of the hostesses notices us and strides over. I’ve seen her before—tall, curvy, with a blouse about three sizes too small and a very conspicuous lack of bra. I can’t recall if I’ve fucked her or not.

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