Page 5 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

He’s massive. A colossus of a man, at least six and a half feet tall and broad in the shoulders with an athlete’s narrow waist. He’s dressed casually in a long-sleeved henley and dark jeans, but the fit and fabric ooze wealth and importance. The watch on his wrist is probably worth more than Mom’s mortgage. And despite being in an airport where everyone looks unshowered and exhausted, this man is photoshoot ready. His hair is perfectly windblown, the natural light is doing wonders for the emerald flecks in his sea-blue eyes, and his jawline looks like it’s been carved with a laser ruler.

A bizarre non sequitur comes to mind: last year, I’d gotten my first big commission as an honest-to-goodness cartoonist, a freelance assignment for the New York Times. Part of the job was drawing—and I quote—“the most handsome man you can imagine.”

Being a hopeless Titanic fangirl, I modeled my piece off Leonardo DiCaprio. Can’t go wrong there, right? And sure, I’d been happy with the result at the time.

But, now, looking into the face of this man, I realize that I drew the wrong Adonis.

He’s still standing there, at least three feet away from me, and yet the heat coming off my body is mortifying. So is the fact that I’ve been staring at him silently for almost six seconds now without saying a word.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

I blink once. Twice. Speak, goddammit. What’s wrong with you, Olivia?

“Sorry,” I manage to choke out. “I… I’m fine. I just… I was…”

“Somewhere else?” he says, helping me out.

I smile. “Right. Yeah. Somewhere else.”

“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” It’s a question that answers itself, said with ease and years of obvious practice.

Something tells me this man knows how to get what he wants.

“No, it would be my pleasure. I mean, not that you’re asking to sit with me. What I mean is, it’s a free country, right? Uh…”

He smiles and heat pools low. Between my legs, to be more precise.

“I promise you: the pleasure is all mine.”

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