Page 1 of Pretty Little Toy

PROLOGUE

WHITNEY

Wrapping my black leather jacket more tightly around me, I fight to ward off the brisk February wind of Chicago. Overall, since moving from Iowa with my mom several years ago, I’ve found the weather to be fairly comparable–freezing my ass off every winter and sweating in the muggy heat every summer–but the wind in Chicago is something to contend with. It seems to cut through every layer of fabric I own and chill me to the very bone, something I don’t recall experiencing during my years growing up in small-town Iowa. Then again, that could just be because our living accomodations changed pretty significantly after my father dipped out on me and my mom to chase some homewrecker named Lacey, leaving us high and dry and forcing Mom and me to move to the city so she could find a steady job.

Now Mom works overtime at the Stickney Stop, an all-night trucking diner, where she pours coffee and serves pancakes and BLTs to truckers from noon until two a.m. five days a week just to pay the bills and set a small sum aside for my college tuition.

I chew my thumbnail as I think about the acceptance letter sitting on my bedside table at home. Rosehill College has actually admitted me into their prestigious dance program, something a select number of students are accepted into every year–usually because they have the connections and the means to pay the school’s impressive admission fees. So the fact that I’ve been accepted at all is something of a minor miracle. It’s not that my grades are so impressive that they had to let me in on academic merit. The recruiters who came to my high school looking for potential dance talent earlier this year must have liked my ballet audition enough to overlook my entirely average GPA.

But that won’t solve my bigger problem of how I’m possibly going to pay for Rosehill’s tuition. The small sum Mom has set aside combined with everything I’ve earned from my after-school job is almost enough to cover the first semester of tuition, and if I pick up a second job and work all summer–and keep working through the first semester of college–I might even be able to afford the first year. But it’s a stretch. And after that, I’ll have to earn a scholarship if I want to continue at Rosehill. They do offer student scholarships, especially in the arts department. But those are hard to come by, seeing as the program is almost entirely funded by a single family.

Still, Rosehill is my dream college. Aside from moving to New York–which is entirely out of the question–Rosehill has one of the best ballet programs in the country, turning out some of the most talented prima ballerinas in the world. And that’s what I want to become. I just have to make it happen. And I will. I know what it means to work hard, to prioritize. I’ve held a job since before my sixteenth birthday, gone to school, then to work, then stayed up late to get as much homework done as I can only to do it all over again because my mom can’t do it all on her own, and my good-for-nothing dad certainly doesn’t intend to help out. Not that I’d ever stoop low enough to ask for his support. He left us high and dry, abandoned me like I was yesterday’s scraps, and as far as I’m concerned, he can go fuck himself.

But if there’s one lesson he’s taught me, it’s that love is just a mirage. Something to trick people into believing in the concept of marriage and happily ever afters. And after my father showed me just how false the entire premise of it really is, I haven’t wasted my high school years pining over some boy, hoping that I might fall in love or some shit like that. I have a vision. I have drive. And I don’t needlove. I need dance.

A bitter gust tousles my wispy black pixie cut, and I momentarily miss my long hair that might have offered my ears a hint of warmth and protection from the biting cold. Turning up the collars of my flannel plaid shirt and leather jacket, I do my best to fend off the chilly air, then shove my hands inside my jacket pockets. My look might be the perfect combination of rebellion and the message “fuck off” that I thoroughly enjoy giving off, but it doesn’t seem to work much when it comes to the weather. Chicago doesn’t want to take the hint, and neither does its wind.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but for some reason, I don’t feel like it’s due to the frigid cold. My fingers have already started to go numb, after all, indicating my body is well past goosebumps and shivers. That’s when I notice for the first time the quiet purr of a motor rumbling steadily behind me. I’ve been so lost in thought about Rosehill and my impending tuition problems that I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. And Englewood is not the best area to be walking in without your wits about you.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a sleek blue Lamborghini creeping down the street and press my lips together as I narrow my eyes, intensifying my message to leave me the fuck alone. But the driver doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pulls ahead of me, turning onto the intersecting street and braking directly in my path. I stop short, squaring my shoulders and grounding my feet as I watch with suspicion. Lamborghinis don’t often find their way into my neighborhood, and one would think that a person who could afford that kind of car would be above kidnapping. But I know better than to trust anything from appearances alone.

The driver’s-side door pops open a moment later, the door rising like a wing rather than opening like one might expect of a car, and a tall, muscular man appears above the car’s hood a moment later. His dark eyes meet mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine, and my stomach starts to quiver inexplicably.

He looks older–in his mid-twenties if I had to guess–with dark, purposeful stubble that gives his strong, angular jaw a distinguished appearance. As he studies me with apparent interest, an amused smile spreads across his lips.

“You look like you could use a ride… perhaps something to warm you up since that jacket doesn’t appear to be doing you much good,” he teases as he slowly starts to approach, leaving his door open wide as if daring someone to steal his car.

His distinct Russian accent throws me off momentarily and at the same time quickens my pulse. In his deep, rumbling bass, his words sound dangerous as he hints at offering me shelter from the cold.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” I state coldly, drawing myself up to my full height as I prepare to defend myself. Planting my feet, I’m silently grateful for my combat boots, which will make a getaway far easier if it should come to that. And after taking in the sight of his impressive figure, I’m sure fighting him off won’t prove successful.

The Russian raises an eyebrow speculatively, calling attention to the professional cut of his dark curls and the way they expertly frame his handsome face.

“Where are you off to?” he asks lightly, glancing in the direction I was walking. “A girl like you shouldn’t be strolling around a neighborhood like this all alone.”

“A girl like me?” I challenge, wondering where he might be going with that statement. “Seeing as it’smyneighborhood, I don’t see I have much choice. And I’m on my way home from school, if you must know. I think the bigger question is what you’re doing driving a car like that around here. You looking to have it stolen?” I snark.

The man chuckles as though my suggestion is entirely ridiculous. But Englewood is full of car thieves, and he’s just left the keys in a priceless commodity with nothing to stop someone from hopping in and tearing off with it while he stands here chatting with me.

“No one would dare steal my car. Especially not in this neighborhood,” he rumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and making his shoulders and biceps bulge in his high-end dark-gray cable-knit sweater.

“Oh, really?” Sass slips into my tone as his mild amusement sets me at ease despite the fact that this beast of a man could probably break me in half if he cared to. My arms cross automatically across my chest, mimicking his body language. “And why not?”

The Russian shrugs as his eyes comb down my body appreciatively. “Let’s just say even the most desperate car thieves know better than to steal from my family.” He lets his arms drop once more as he steps forward, closing the distance between us until he enters my personal space.

Despite the fact that I’m decently tall at five foot six, this man towers above me, forcing me to look up into his eyes as he smiles down on me with easy confidence. The sharp scent of pine combined with sandalwood fills my nose, a deeply masculine cologne that cuts through the cold air like a warm campfire.

“What is your name,moya feya?” he purrs, making my heart stutter as his eyes hold mine captive.

I don’t know whatmoya feyameans, but he speaks it like a precious word. I can’t make sense of the way my body seems to respond to him. I’ve never been one to fawn over guys. Hell, I’ve never even had a boyfriend, but something in this stranger’s intense gaze, his sultry tone makes my knees weak. I lick my suddenly dry lips and swallow hard before responding.

“Whitney,” I say breathily and hate how girly I sound. Trying to regain some sense of composure, I clear my throat. “Who’s asking?” I demand defensively, tipping my chin up defiantly.

“I’m Ilya,” he replies simply. “You go to school around here?” he presses.

“Englewood High,” I say then bite my lip as I wonder if I ought to be keeping my personal information to myself. I don’t know this man, and he exudes a sense of danger, though I don’t sense that he intends to do me harm.

“Really?” His tone is thick with surprise and perhaps a hint of disappointment. “How old are you, Whitney?”

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