VLAD (The V Games #1)(3)

I like her.

And once she’s out, it’s hard to stuff her back inside.

The gentle murmur of the wind rattling the church doors reminds me why I never wear dresses. If not for the alcohol warming my blood, I’d be a popsicle right now. The church is full, but there’s an odd emptiness in the atmosphere, causing a shiver to race through me.

My gaze searches for him. Vlad Vasiliev. Strong. Formidable. Beautiful. His dark hair is gelled into a style that makes me crave to run my fingers through it and mess it up. The thought of him having messy hair for once in his life has me stifling a highly inappropriate giggle.

Maybe I should calm down with the flask sipping.

I let my eyes fixate on the tick of his jaw. All humor dissipates as I appreciate the muscle in his neck flexing every now and again. I wonder what he tastes like right there. He’s sitting to the right, just in front of me. If I lean forward, I could probably smell the shampoo he uses. I bet it’s something masculine and expensive.

I straighten my back and clench my thighs. The lady beside me shifts and I notice her watching me as I check Vlad out. Ignoring her barely contained curled lip, I continue my visual sampling. It’s not often I get to be this close to him and stare unabashedly.

The suit he’s wearing fits over his broad shoulders like a second skin, not a wrinkle or piece of lint to be seen. His polished look is like his armor—it deters people from even approaching him. I certainly never have.

Dominance, money, and supremacy emanate from him in droves, like a forcefield he’s conjured up through sheer will.

I’ve been watching him from the background since I could walk. Learning, deconstructing, and pining despite my brain wishing I didn’t. But it’s impossible not to. He’s my favorite addiction.

I take him in like air to my lungs and breathe.

He appears more angry than sad based on the way he’s gritting his teeth and how tense he is. Figures, these assholes are probably more pissed off their Viktor didn’t make it out than they are at losing a loved one.

My sister told me a secret the day Viktor died—one that turned my whole life on its head. She was to be promised to Viktor. Father was already in negotiations for their arranged marriage, and she was to be his wife—a widow if The Games had happened half a year later. Another reason why Father was furious. It’s almost like he blames Yuri Vasiliev for sacrificing his youngest son to prevent their union.

All my life, my mother promised our lives wouldn’t be like hers. That our marriages would be our choice and not what benefits the family.

I’d almost believed her too.

When she couldn’t produce a son for my father, though, he began to train my sister and me for the family business. Made sure we were fluent in five languages and paid for private schools and tutors to build our knowledge of the world around us. He even went as far as making us travel to be educated in the countries’ cultures he thought were important. He reinforced that, just because we’re female, it didn’t lessen our worth or power when it came to business, not if we didn’t want it to.

We wouldn’t be bound to make a husband happy while he runs an empire because we’d have our own empire and love. Duty would not rule our destiny.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

My soul deflated the day my sister told me of our father’s plan to marry her to Viktor. He was only eighteen, same as me. Diana is twenty-four, and to my astonishment, and disappointment, she was going to go through with it. The words, “It will be good for our family,” fell from her lips like cyanide, poisoning the respect and admiration I’d carried for her all my life. She sounded just like Father.

And if he plans for her to be married, then that means I’ll be after her and the business we’ve been learning to take over since we could talk will be merged with the Vasiliev family. It’s a good business strategy but it strengthens the Vasiliev’s more than anything else. We will be expected to lie on our backs and produce heirs for our husbands like it’s the eighteen-hundreds.

I wonder if Diana is sad her betrothed is gone or if she’s secretly happy…

Pondering these thoughts, I take another swig, desperate for more of the numbing burn, and run my hand over the black dress gathered in thick layers on my thighs. The material itches and there’s a draft running up the back of my legs.

A nudge at my hip causes me to almost spill the liquor in the flask.

I hiss and scrunch my nose at my sister seated to my right. Her lips turn up in a devious grin, then quickly slip back to two red, plump lines, stoic. Only my sister could look sophisticated with red lipstick at a funeral.

Her hand slides over mine, taking the bottle and screwing the cap on.

Party pooper.

I snatch it back, but my hands are freezing, and I fumble to grasp it, causing it to tumble from my fingers and clatter to the church floor, skittering under the pew in front of me. I cringe internally and begin twisting my earring to calm my nerves.

My sister’s eyes expand in horror as Vlad turns around in his seat in front of us. It’s almost in slow motion to my galloping heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My breath gets caught in my windpipe as his dark amber orbs flit in my direction. Narrowed. Irritated. Fierce.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Damn, my head spins as if I’ve been drinking a thousand-proof liquor and not just eighty.

My lids flutter without permission, and my stomach knots. It’s the first time in my entire life he’s ever looked directly at me as though he sees me as more than some kid. Eighteen years, and never once has someone impacted me with just a look.