Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“We should have you model,” Mama says, stepping back to examine me approvingly, and this time, I do grimace.
I hope she’s just saying it, but knowing my mom, she’s already sent my pictures to some agency.
“Who’s coming today?” I ask, just in case she hasn’t yet sent the pictures. Maybe if I distract her, she’ll forget this terrible idea altogether. “Papa’s business partners?”
“Yes, and—”
“Vera!” Papa’s deep voice booms from downstairs. “Where are you? They’re here.”
At the sound of her name, my mom smooths her palms over her dress and touches her elaborately coiled updo to make sure every single glossy brown hair is in place. “Coming!” she yells back before pinning me with a laser stare. “You will come down in a half hour to greet everyone, you hear? Keep an eye on the clock and don’t go getting lost in those silly games of yours. This is important.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it, Alina. I won’t have time to come up here and drag you out.”
“Yeah, I got it. Now go.” I make shooing motions with my hands. “Papa is waiting.”
With one last narrow-eyed look at me, she departs, and I plop onto the couch and turn on my game.
I’m so caught up in beating the next boss that by the time I look at the clock, it’s been close to an hour. Oops. I run over to the mirror to make sure my makeup hasn’t smeared, and then I hurry out of the room as fast as the stupid heels allow.
As I walk down the hallway, I catch a murmur of voices and drunken laughter coming from downstairs. I can picture the old men and their wives, all glammed up and perfumed, saying their cheesy toasts as they pound down vodka and cognac while devouring the rich spread of appetizers our chef, Pavel, has prepared. No basic salat oliv’ye here; it’s all fancy caviar and gourmet French cheese, each dish carefully curated to show off our power and wealth.
I’m passing by Papa’s study when the door swings open and a man steps out in front of me.
Startled, I jump back, and my left heel lands on the carpet the wrong way. I cry out, arms flailing as my ankle buckles painfully underneath me. Before I can fall on my ass, strong hands grab my elbows, stabilizing me, and I find myself looking up into the darkest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.
The man holding me is muscular and tall. So tall that even in my heels, I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze. And he’s young. Young enough to be called a boy. His height and the breadth of his shoulders fooled me initially, but he can’t be much older than my brother Nikolai, who’s just turned twenty.
I swallow hard as those dark, hooded eyes rake over my face, lingering for a moment on my bright red lips. My heart is pounding and my skin feels strangely warm, especially where his fingers grip my bare arms. I’ve never been so physically close to a male who’s unrelated to me, and while this man-boy is nowhere near as ridiculously handsome as my brothers, I can’t stop staring at his face, with its rugged, potently masculine features. There’s something wild about him, something untamed in the tousled black locks falling over his forehead and in the sharp, almost cruel lines of his jaw. Even his cologne, with its subtle notes of pine and leather, reminds me of dark winter forests and the dangers lurking within.
“You okay?” he asks softly. The deep timbre of his voice is that of a man, not a boy. “Did you hurt yourself?”
I manage a headshake, and he lets go of me. I immediately step back. My arms tingle where he held me, the cool air wafting over my skin forming a stark contrast to the heat of his touch.
He runs his gaze over me, the look in it distinctly male and adult. Strangely, I don’t mind. For the first time, I’m glad I look all of seventeen, maybe even eighteen. I wish I looked twenty. Pulling back my shoulders, I stand straighter, even as a trickle of nervous sweat runs down my spine underneath the tight bodice of the dress.
Does he like what he sees? Because I want him to. I want it badly.
His lips curl wickedly as his eyes return to my face. “What’s the matter, beauty? Cat got your tongue?”
Beauty? He does like what he sees! Then the meaning of his words filters into my brain, and I realize I’ve been staring at him in total silence, like an awestruck groupie. A hot flush scorches my face. “Of course not!”
His eyes narrow, the wicked smirk falling off his lips, and I want to crawl under the carpet. What a stupid, immature response. Worse yet, the words came out in a squeak, making me sound like a dumb kid instead of a young adult close to his age. Which is what I’ll be soon-ish. Like in four or five years.