Page 17 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Hence the people watching,” I say, remembering her earlier comment that she was an observer.

“Exactly.” She nods enthusiastically. “I guess, as I got older, that never really changed. Kids my own age never interested me. I think it was because I had siblings who were so much older.”

“It must have been hard when they moved out.”

Her eyes brighten just a little. It’s that feeling she’s describing—being seen by another. Recognized. Understood.

For her, capturing that feeling is art.

For me, it’s nothing but business.

“You have no idea. I was six when Rob went off to college. Eight when it was Mia’s turn. I turned to drawing even more then. Pretty sure I kept the art supply store in business for, like, a decade.”

“But you’re close to them still.”

“Yeah,” she says, but I note a subtle downshift in her tone. “Really close.”

I narrow my eyes. “You okay?”

She looks at me with a start, surprised that I picked up on the change in mood. “I’m fine,” she deflects. “Totally fine.”

It’s not even remotely convincing, but I let it go. There’s no point in pushing her for information I already know.

“Goodness,” she says, looking out my window. “I didn’t even realize we were in the air already.”

“Guess my company is effectively distracting.”

Our eyes meet, and she flushes again. I’ve never seen someone whose emotions play out so clearly on their face. Olivia turns her gaze to the bottom of her glass, avoiding mine as much as she can.

A shiver works through her. I can see goosebumps along her wrist. I pull out the soft silk blanket from the seat pocket and toss it over her lap.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding unnecessarily flattered for so simple a gesture.

“You’re not used to this, are you?” I ask.

“Used to what?”

“Having a man pay attention to you.”

She rears back, equal parts surprised and offended. “You don’t know me,” she snaps, more aggressively than she’s said anything else.

“Okay, when’s the last time a man took you by surprise?” I ask bluntly.

“My ex-boyfriend,” she replies. “Tons of times.”

“Name one.”

She gives it some thought, but before she can speak, I interrupt. “If you have to think so hard, then it didn’t happen.”

Her face falls. “They were just little things. Small gestures. I don’t remember them all.”

“A woman like you deserves the world to be handed to her on a silver platter,” I murmur.

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think I’m the type to inspire that kind of devotion.”

I lean in close, my lips brushing across the shell of her ear. “Oh, kiska, I disagree.”

My fingers dance along her thigh. She turns to look at me, wide-eyed. But all that does is put our lips within kissing distance.

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