Bratva Butcher: Chapter 29

Of-fucking-course.

Dimitri Volkov, the man who’d consumed my every waking thought for the past two bloody weeks was there, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Fucking hell,” I blew out as I made my way back to the party.

Walking away from him had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Staying away from him… Even harder.

I didn’t expect it. I was sure once I was finally away from him that the strange infatuation I had would disappear right along with him. I mean, the man drove me batshit crazy half the time with his snobby attitude, annoying insults and stupid, handsome fucking face.

And yet, there was this aching need deep in my soul to be near him. To see him. To hear his voice.

I tried everything I could think of the past few weeks to keep myself busy in the hopes he would vanish from my mind. I worked out. Read. Binge-watched all my favourite comfort television shows. Even threw myself into my work, completing three contracts. I’d never done that before in that time frame.

But none of it worked.

Dimitri was still there, occupying my mind to the point where not a single day had gone past since the island that I hadn’t thought about him. Wondered what he was doing. If he was missing me too.

How idiotic of me. The man hadn’t missed me. Missed insulting me, maybe. Missed fucking with my head with his whole hot and cold routine.

But he hadn’t missed me.

“Stupid, arrogant, good-looking son of a bitch,” I grumbled under my breath.

My hand itched for the comfort of my blades, but given the social setting, I didn’t think it would be acceptable to walk back into the main ballroom holding them.

Unfortunately.

Dimitri had been right about one thing, though I would never admit it to his face. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be an event I’d be invited to. The guest list was very exclusive, and the only reason I was even there was because I was somebody else’s plus one.

“There you are, darling.”

Ugh, speak of the devil. I plastered a big, fake smile on my lips and turned to face the owner of the male voice.

Dr Johnathon Warren, a forty-nine-year-old psychologist who owned several private practices in London. He was a close family friend of Allistair, the man hosting the night’s ball, and my next target.

He was a rather average-looking man. Sandy blonde hair, thin lips. While he’d been nothing but kind to me, the same couldn’t be said for other women. According to my source, he’d raped six women in his office. Women who were struggling, looking for someone to talk to, someone to help them. He’d taken advantage of them right there without a care in the world for the consequences, telling them that even if they reported it, no one would believe them. That he was a well respected doctor who came from a rich family, capable of burying whatever investigation they tried to bring against him.

He belittled those women. Made them feel small. Alone. Worthless. All while taking whatever he wanted from them.

And one of them committed suicide because of it.

Sabrina Kays was sixteen years old and struggling with depression. She went to Dr Warren in the hopes that he could talk her off the cliff she was standing on. Instead, he pushed her over it.

Her mother, Beatrice, contacted me and asked me to put an end to his reign of terror on young, vulnerable women. Being in the mood to kill someone, I took the contract pro bono.

“Johnathon.” I accepted his kiss on the cheek with no protest, despite the fact that his lips on my skin made me want to vomit. “My apologies. There was a line for the ladies room. You were looking for me?”

“Yes.” He handed my black clutch back to me. “They’re about to serve dinner, and we need to take our seats.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

I smiled, and this time it wasn’t fake. Now that it was time for dinner, it meant I was one step closer to completing my goal and getting the fuck out of there.

Looping my arm through his, I allowed him to escort me out of the ballroom and into the formal dining area. Dozens of circular tables were set up throughout the space, each one adorned with beautiful white lace tablecloths and expensive gold place settings. Most of the guests were already seated, only a few free tables remaining.

I couldn’t help but scan my surroundings, searching for the set of mesmerising sapphire eyes that set my soul on fire as Johnathon led me to one of the tables at the front of the room. He greeted people as we walked past with a simple nod of the head or a friendly smile.

“Here you go.” He pulled out a gold-plated chair, sweeping his arm across it in a gentlemanly gesture.

If I didn’t know what he liked to do in the dark, I’d almost believe the act he was putting on.

I thanked him and sat down. Seven other people were already at the table, talking quietly amongst themselves. An elderly couple—the woman dressed in a beautiful Victorian era ball gown with her hair up in a stylish up-do, the man dressed in a black tuxedo with a pair of white gloves on his hands—introduced themselves as Mr and Mrs DeShawn. I didn’t know them, but I gave them what I hoped was a friendly smile in return.

Sitting next to them was a stunningly beautiful brunette woman, Richelle Winter. She had expensive diamond earrings dangling from her ears that matched the diamond pendant around her throat.

Next to her was a man named Ian Phillips and his wife, Victoria Phillips. He was an asshole. I’d only caught the very end of their conversation when I sat down, but that was all I needed to hear to know that he was a royal jackass and she was a whiny bitch. A match made in heaven.

There was a blonde gentleman sitting next to them, Joel Miller and his African American husband, Andre Miller, both dressed in black suits with matching red ties and pocket squares.

“She’s a pretty one, Johnathon,” Ian commented, pointing his champagne glass at me. “Better than last year’s, that’s for sure. How much did this one cost?”

Victoria snickered. I had a feeling she was one of those people who was more pretty on the outside than she was on the inside.

“More than you could afford,” I said casually as I placed my clutch down on the table.

A round of laughter went through the table.

“This is Natalie,” Johnathon introduced, taking his seat. “And if you must know, she’s actually a family friend.”

False.

False, false, motherfucking false.

The truth of it was, “Natalie” was hired by Johnathon’s mother to accompany him to the event. It just so happened I wasn’t the Natalie his mother actually hired. I’d been monitoring Johnathon’s text messages, trying to pick the right moment to strike, when he told his mother he desperately needed to find someone to come with him. Apparently, showing up alone to those kinds of things was considered bad taste.

I kidnapped the real Natalie, stuffed her in the boot of my car and took her place. It was actually a lot easier than I anticipated. Johnathon had never met her before, had no idea what she looked like, and because all of the details of where and when to meet were in the text messages, it wasn’t difficult to just slip right into the role.

“Right. Family friend.” Ian pumped his eyebrows up and down. “Honestly, it’s like they let anyone into these things lately. Absolutely no sense to the social order of things.”

“Yes, and their first mistake was letting you in,” Andre quipped, tipping his head back and taking a sip from his glass.

“Ha, ha. Hilarious,” Ian huffed. “Talk to me when you’ve made your first million.”

“It’s not the same thing if you didn’t earn it. Tell me, how does it feel to spend Daddy’s money all the time?” Andre asked, arching an eyebrow.

Ian’s face reddened in anger.

Andre turned away from him and gave me a friendly smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Natalie. Ignore him. We all do.”

“I think I’ll do that,” I chuckled.

Light chatter picked up around the table, everyone falling into the casual niceties those types of events brought forth. I remained silent, not having much to contribute to the conversation if I wanted to maintain my cover. Andre and Joel were the only ones who tried to include me, which I appreciated. They were the only people around the table I didn’t want to stab in the eye with my fork.

I picked up my champagne glass, casually glancing at Johnathon’s as I brought it to my lips. There was a small vial of Thallium in my clutch—a tasteless and odorless poison that was virtually undetectable in an autopsy. I needed to find some way to get it into his drink.

Being as high profile as he was, I couldn’t kill Johnathon the way I would usually kill all my marks. His death needed to be a bit more discreet. Be done with more finesse. It needed to look like natural causes.

The best way to do that was to poison him.

Thallium was a good choice because most doctors never thought to test for it and it could take several days to actually kill the victim. Making it absolutely perfect for what I needed.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Electricity sizzled down my spine at that deep, husky voice. I looked up over the rim of my glass to see Dimitri standing at the other side of the table, one hand on Ian’s shoulder.

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Richelle’s mouth dropped open when her eyes landed on Dimitri and the gorgeous fucking specimen he made, standing there in a suit that was molded to his frame so well that we could see every outline of his muscles. Lust burnt in her eyes. I wanted to cut them out of her fucking head.

“Yes, I do fucking mind—” Ian’s words cut off with a frightened choke when he turned and saw that it was Dimitri asking for his seat. He paled, his whole face going white as a ghost.

The expression on Dimitri’s face was pleasant enough, but there was a dangerous look in his eyes. One that Ian saw because that pussy backtracked so fucking quick that he stuttered.

“N-no. No, not at all. Here you go.” He got to his feet, dragging his wife up with him. “Come on, Victoria.”

“But I—”

“Shut up,” he hissed when she tried to protest. He fled quickly, dragging her behind him.

Dimitri undid the buttons on his suit jacket with one hand and then sat down, eyes firmly on me.

Shivers danced down my spine. The fucking power that man wielded. All it took was one glance from Dimitri Volkov to send Ian running for his life.

Why do I find that so fucking hot?

There was a brief moment of awkward silence as Dimitri’s companion, Mikhail, took his seat.

Richelle, now next to Dimitri, batted her eyelashes and gave him a seductive smirk. “Hi,” she whispered, voice raspy. “I’m Richelle.” She offered her hand like she expected Dimitri to kiss it. As if she was royalty.

He looked her up and down with disdain and then turned away from her without even saying a word.

Ouch.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr…” Johnathon began.

Dimitri stared at me for several long seconds, tension building between us before he swung his gaze to Johnathon. “Dimitri Volkov,” he said, accent thicker than I’d ever heard it before.

Mrs DeShawn smiled at him. “Lovely to see you again, Dimitri.”

“You as well, Margaret,” he said, nodding his head once in greeting. “Andre, Joel,” he addressed politely.

Johnathon arched an eyebrow. A flicker of unease flashed across his face, though he tried to hide it. “Wow. Your reputation precedes you, Mr Volkov. Don’t you own like half of Las Vegas?”

“Three-quarters,” Dimitri corrected, shrugging a shoulder. “But who’s counting?”

“You, obviously,” I mumbled under my breath.

Dimitri narrowed his eyes at me.

“Quite impressive,” Johnathon continued. “I’m Dr Johnathon Warren, a world-renowned psychologist. I own several clinics throughout London.”

“And I’m Richelle,” the brunette said again, placing a hand to her chest to try to draw attention to her breasts.

“I heard you the first time,” Dimitri barked, making her flinch. He looked me dead in the eyes, holding my gaze. “And…you are?”

Okay, so he isn’t going to blow my cover…yet.

“This is Natalie.” Johnathon placed his hand on top of mine on the table. “My date.”

Instead of balking at his touch, like I so desperately wanted to do, I manoeuvred my hand to grasp his.

Dimitri clocked the movement, scowling. He leant forward, bracing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers. “Natalie,” he said, rolling the word off his tongue like he was tasting it. “You know, you look so familiar. Have we met before?”

The dick.

“Nope, can’t say we have. And I would remember. I always remember rude people.”

“I’m rude?” he asked, hand to the chest.

“I’d constitute kicking someone out of their chair when there were plenty of available seats at other tables quite rude, wouldn’t you?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mikhail snickered into his glass as he took a sip.

Dimitri’s lips curved up into a small smirk. “I guess that depends on who you ask.”

I gestured to the other people around the table. “Why don’t we open it up to the floor, then?”

“I think it’s rude,” Johnathon piped in, and I wasn’t the least bit surprised with his answer. He and Dimitri were having some sort of invisible dick measuring contest, and I had no idea why.

“I think it’s fine,” Mrs DeShawn shrugged. “You see, you might not know this, dear, because of your social standing” —subtle drive by insult there— “but there are certain levels of class. Mr Volkov simply outclasses Mr Phillips, therefore, if he wants his seat, he has every right to take it.”

Aristocratic, entitled old bitch.

“One for. One against.” I looked at Joel and Andre.

Andre opened his mouth to answer, but Joel placed a hand on his husband’s shoulder. “I think we will abstain from participating in this particular conversation,” he said smoothly.

It didn’t end up mattering. The topic dropped immediately when nine waiters appeared out of nowhere, each one carrying a plate of food. In unison, they stepped forward and deposited a plate in front of each of us.

I looked down and—

Ugh, snails?! Seriously?! Rich people, man.

“Escargot, with a side of pickled cucumbers,” one of the waiters introduced.

“Uh, excuse me,” I rushed when he turned to leave. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t eat this.” Not unless you want me to throw up everywhere. “Is there another option for the appetiser?”

Disdain and disgust washed over the waiter’s face. I felt like I’d just committed some horrible, heinous act by asking that one question.

“This is a pre-fixed menu, each item meticulously chosen months in advance and prepared by the best chefs in the world. You either eat what Sir Allistair has chosen for you or you do not eat.” He stuck his nose up in the air and then spun on his heels, marching away.

Well, alrighty then.

Embarrassment shot down my spine when Mrs DeShawn broke out in a fit of laughter, looking at me like I was some sort of idiot. Richelle joined in, shaking her head as she ate her food.

I wasn’t embarrassed because they were laughing. I didn’t give a fuck what they thought of me.

But Dimitri? Yeah, I kinda cared about that.

Did he think I was an idiot, too?

I’d taken plenty of etiquette lessons. Uncle E had insisted on them because sometimes, to complete a contract, I would be required to infiltrate events exactly like that, and I would need to know how to blend in so I didn’t draw unwanted attention to myself.

I knew how to dance. Knew how to walk. How to sit with perfect posture. How to talk. Knew how to behave like I came from money, with elegance and grace.

But this was something that I didn’t know, and it was painfully obvious that I didn’t belong there.

I was about to tell her where to shove it when Dimitri spoke, a smile on his face.

“Margaret, that’s a beautiful necklace you have on.”

She gushed, touching the ruby pendant around her neck. “Oh, thank you.”

His smile dropped in an instant. “Too bad it’s not real.”

Margaret spluttered. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s real.”

“Is it?” He leant back in his chair, his finger tapping idly on the table. “Because I happen to know for a fact that your husband was recently charged with fraud and embezzlement. That, in order to make full restitution for the money he stole, you were required to sell nearly everything you own and move into your younger sister’s basement.”

Her entire face flushed red.

“Plus, I can spot a Park Han knockoff from a mile away.”

She looked down at her plate, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Dimitri and I locked eyes. Maybe it was because I knew him so well that I was able to decipher that look on his face. It seemed to say, “Only I can insult you. Only I can fuck with you.”

My phone dinged from inside my clutch. I exhaled a relieved breath. It was the perfect excuse I needed to tear my eyes away from Dimitri’s hypnotizing gaze.

I pulled out my phone and smiled at the text, humor trickling through me.

I refrained from glancing around the room and replied back.

A small chuckle fell from my lips. If I were to have one friend, it would probably be Vanessa. Technically, she was a work colleague. We were both trained by Elias ,and every now and then, we teamed up on particularly difficult contracts. She just so happened to have a target there as well.

I’d vented to her about Dimitri and the island when I first returned, so she knew everything.

Well, almost everything. Some things I thought were best to keep to myself.

In my peripheral vision, I could see Dimitri staring at me, his eyes narrowed on my phone like it was his worst enemy or some shit. He hadn’t touched his food. I wasn’t sure if that was because of me or because he didn’t like snails, either.

More plates of food arrived, but I didn’t touch any of it. I wasn’t hungry anyway, my mind far too focused on the brooding, hulking male sitting across from me. Everyone else around the table continued to eat and engage in quiet, mediocre chit chat while I just kept my eyes on my phone, checking random social media platforms and texting Vanessa back.

I laughed, shaking my head.

“You know, it’s considered rude to use your phone at the dinner table.”

My gaze rose and clashed with Dimitri’s.

Seriously, what was this guy’s fucking problem? One second, he was insulting me, then he was defending me, then he was putting me on blast in front of everyone.

Make up your fucking mind, Butcher.

“So, what you’re saying is, it’s okay to be rude as long as you’re the one doing it?” I locked my phone and placed it face down on the table. “I’m curious, Mr Volkov, are you this hypocritical in your normal day-to-day life, or do you reserve it just for special events like this? Or perhaps for people who intimidate you?”

He smiled broadly. He didn’t answer, instead turning his attention to Johnathon. “Dr Warren, you said you were a psychologist, correct?”

“Uh, yes?” Jonathan answered in between bites.

“So, you study the mind then. Tell me, if someone were to have a dream about someone else, what can that mean?”

What? Where is he going with this?

Johnathan frowned, confused by his question. “A dream?”

“Yes.” His eyes cut to me. “A dream of a sexual nature.”

Oh, that fucking asshole.

I glared daggers at him from across the table. My fingers walked across the surface and gripped the knife sitting next to my giant plate of uneaten slugs.

“Well, uh, it could mean a myriad of things. The most likely scenario is that it means nothing at all. Or, it could mean they have some sort of desire to get closer to the person they’re dreaming about. Dreams can often relate back to what is happening in our waking lives. Some believe that dreams are even our subconscious mind trying to tell us something. Something we may be refusing to acknowledge.”

That sounded an awful lot like denial to me. Dimitri was the fucking king of that, and he was trying to insinuate I was the one in denial?

Fuck right off.

“Interesting,” Dimitri sang, one finger tapping idly against his chin, smugness practically wafting off him.

I wanted to jump across the table and jab him in the throat, but this battle needed to be fought with a different, more subtle tactic.

“That kind of sounds like denial, wouldn’t you say, Johnathon?” I asked casually, my eyes still on Dimitri, and his on me.

“I suppose,” Johnathon replied, completely ignorant of what was going on. “There’s quite a few different forms of denial.”

“Would you say someone playing hot and cold with you—say, they’re smiling, laughing, even going so far as to flirt with you, and then they do a complete 180 and start snapping at you and insulting you—could that be considered as a form of denial?”

“That is…oddly specific,” he frowned, his confusion growing by the second. “But yes, it’s a possibility. It could be that this person has repressed feelings they’re refusing to deal with. Or possibly even refusing to acknowledge. And instead of dealing with these feelings, they lash out with anger at the person responsible for causing them.”

“Interesting,” I sang, mirroring Dimitri.

He scowled at me, a thunderstorm of anger rolling over his eyes. I smiled smugly.

Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew I was talking about him, and he knew that Johnathon was describing him to a tee.

“What about people who can’t take criticism?” Dimitri barked out of nowhere.

“I-I’m sorry?” Jonathan spluttered at the same time I snapped, “I can take criticism!”

Joel’s gaze flicked between me and Dimitri. “Do you two know each other?”

“No,” we growled at the same time.

Thankfully, an announcement from one of Allistair’s men prohibited any follow up questions.

“Introducing our esteemed host of tonight’s event, Sir Allistair Vanderbilt the Third.” Jonathan, Mr and Mrs DeShawn, Richelle, Joel and Andre all turned to look behind me, where I assumed Allistair was entering from. But I was far too preoccupied death staring Dimitri to give a shit about what was going on behind me.

So was he.

We glared at each other from across the table as a round of applause went through the group. Weeks of repressed sexual tension vibrated between us, hot and violent.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” I mouthed to him, enunciating every word slowly so there would be no mistaking what it was I was saying.

He pointed a finger at me. “You shut up,” he mouthed back.

Somehow, we started arguing without actually saying a word, gesturing violently with our hands and cursing each other out while everyone else at the table had their heads turned. The only one watching what was going on was Mikhail, and he just seemed to find the whole thing humorous, leaning back in his chair and eating his food with an amused smile on his face.

Jonathan must have noticed something strange was going on, though, because he looked over his shoulder to glance at me, brows lowered.

I smiled and gave him an awkward thumbs up.

His frown deepened slightly before he looked away.

When I locked eyes with Dimitri again, his smirk made me snap.

Fuck subtly.

My fingers were still wrapped around the handle of my butter knife. I gripped it tight and hurled it right at him.

He lurched right, narrowly missing it all while staying seated in his chair. Without missing a beat, he grabbed his own knife from the table and threw it at me. I quickly picked up my clutch and used it like a shield to block the knife, the blade sinking deep into the fabric.

“Ugh. He’s coming over here,” Andre huffed.

I yanked the knife out of my clutch just as he and everyone else turned back around. Dimitri and I acted like nothing had happened, like we didn’t just try to fucking kill each other.

“Do you think he’s going to do his stupid dance tradition?” Andre finished.

“Of course he is,” Mr DeShawn answered, sounding none too happy about the idea, either. “He does it every year.”

“I pray he doesn’t pick us this time,” Joel said with a grumble.

Richelle smirked seductively at Dimitri. “I wouldn’t mind getting chosen,” she purred. “It could be fun with the right partner, don’t you think, Dimitri?”

His eyes slammed on her, burning with anger and irritation. And not the fun kind. Like the kind he used when he looked at me. This was something worse. Far worse. Fucking hell. If looks could kill. I thought he’d looked at me like he wanted to slit my throat before…but that was nothing compared to how he was looking at Richelle.

“Why are you talking to me?” he barked harshly.

Richelle blanched and looked down at her plate.

I held in my snicker. God, I forgot what a royal jackass he could be.

“What’s going on?” I asked Johnathon. “What is Allistair choosing people for?”

“For his dance,” Mikhail answered instead, rolling his eyes. “After dinner is served, Allistair makes the rounds. He visits each table, engaging in mindless, idiotic small talk before selecting two people to dance. Sometimes, he’ll pick couples. Sometimes, he’ll pick people who hate each other. Sometimes, he’ll pick a man and his mistress instead of picking the wife. It’s all about the drama, really. Rich people get bored easily, and they need to create their own chaos to keep entertained.”

I understood that one. Talon and his stupid fight-to-the-death island was a prime example of what a rich, bored person was capable of.

“Why the hell would anyone agree to do it?” I knew how to dance traditionally, the polka, the galop, the waltz. It was another thing Uncle E insisted I learn. But that didn’t mean I liked doing it. There was no way in hell I’d ever just dance because some rich asshole told me too—

“You either dance, or you’re escorted out of the ball and blacklisted from any future events.”

No.

“Status means everything to these kinds of people,” Mikhail continued, shrugging a shoulder as he glanced around the room aimlessly. “To be banned from one of the hottest events of the year would be social suicide for them.”

Crap. The vial of Thallium was still in my clutch. I hadn’t had the chance to slip it into Johnathon’s drink yet. I couldn’t be kicked out.

I looked over my shoulder. Allistair was making his way through the room, table by table. He would stop, chat for a few minutes and then, all of a sudden, two people would get up and make their way out of the dining area.

And all of them didn’t look the least bit happy about it.

If you ignored the fact that he was wearing a gold crown on his head and that he was covered head to toe in expensive jewellery, he was a rather plain man. Wrinkled skin, pale blue eyes, a full head of grey hair. Absolutely nothing overly memorable about him.

My heart sped up when he started making his way over to our table. There were eight other people sitting there, nine, if you included myself. So that meant I had a one in nine chance of being chosen.

Not the best odds, but also not the worst, either.

“How are we all tonight?” Allistair had a very thick British accent, but I had the sneaking suspicion he was making it more prominent than it actually was. His gaze locked on Dimitri, and a huge smile broke out over his face. “Ah, Dimitri! I heard you were here.” He slapped a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Such a wonderful surprise.”

Annoyance streaked across Dimitri’s face. He turned his head, looked at the hand sitting on his shoulder and then up to Allistair’s face. He didn’t say anything, letting that dark, dangerous look in his eyes do all the talking for him.

A slow grin quirked Allistair’s mouth. “My apologies,” he said, removing his hand. “It’s been so long since you attended one of my events. I forgot you don’t like to be touched. How have you been?”

“Fine,” Dimitri grunted.

“As chatty as always, I see,” he chuckled. He greeted everyone by name, including me—well, my fake name anyway—and gave us all a nod. Then, there was an awkward silence as everyone except for Mikhail and Dimitri avoided eye contact with the man as if they feared looking at him meant he would choose them. “Well, I think we all know who I’m going to select first to join the dance of the night.”

Slowly, methodically, he moved his gaze around the table, looking us all in the eyes before finally landing on Dimitri. He smiled triumphantly.

“No,” Dimitri growled instantly.

Laughing, Allistair shook his head. “Oh, come on, Dimitri! You had to know I would pick you! You haven’t been to one of my events in, what, ten years?”

“And it will be another ten years before I attend another.”

“All the more reason to pick you now, then.” Dimitri didn’t move, didn’t stand, refusing to even entertain the idea of it. Irritation flickered across Allistair’s face. “If you would rather not participate, I can have my men escort you out.” At the wave of his hand, four hulking men who were built like fucking linebackers appeared, standing behind him with the threat of deadly force lying deep in the depths of their eyes.

Dimitri didn’t seem remotely bothered by their sudden presence. After witnessing what he was capable of on Talon’s island, I wasn’t the least bit surprised by that. I was yet to see that man intimidated by anyone or anything, and I was pretty sure I would die before I ever got to.

Mikhail, however… Well, that was a different story. He pulled Dimitri to him and they began to have a heated discussion in Russian.

Spoiler alert: for the past two weeks I’d been secretly learning Russian by listening to “Learn Russian” audiobooks. I, in no way, knew enough to get by, but I did know enough to pick up a few things during their conversation.

“I’m not…fuck no…”

“…have too…mission…get kicked out…fucking…do it!”

It sounded like Dimitri was refusing to dance to Allistair’s tune, and Mikhail was telling him he had no choice. That they couldn’t get kicked out of the ball because they had some sort of mission to finish.

What mission?

With an angry snarl, Dimitri got to his feet abruptly, buttoning up his suit jacket.

“Wonderful!” Allistair beamed. “Now, to select your partner—”

Richelle’s arm shot up in the air so quickly that I was surprised she didn’t pull it out of the fucking socket. “I’d be happy to—”

“Fuck. No,” Dimitri snapped.

“Well, okay then,” Allistair said. “Sorry, dear. Better not push my luck. How about” —Don’t you dare say me, don’t you fucking dare say me— “you, Natalie?”

I groaned internally. Plastering a smile on my face, I looked at Allistair. “Thank you so much for the opportunity to participate, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. Dancing isn’t really my thing.”

He returned my smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.” I suggest you make it your thing, darling. Same rules apply.”

The four men standing behind him all turned to face me and took a step in my direction, their intent clear.

I gritted my teeth, trying to keep my anger in check. I couldn’t afford to get kicked out of the ball yet. My mission was still incomplete. That meant that if I wanted to finish it, I would need to fucking dance. I moved my eyes to Dimitri. His face was impassable. I had no idea what the fuck he was thinking, but unlike when Richelle offered to be his partner, he didn’t say a goddamn word. Didn’t remotely object.

Why did my heart pound in my chest at that thought?