Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(31)

I probably would too.

Unconsciously, I assemble more evidence of Katya living with him: a scarf on the leather barstool, lip gloss and mascara beside the coffee pot, and necklaces dangling on a key hook.

His attention is latched on the spiral staircase that leads to one bedroom up above, like a loft. I wonder if that’s her room.

I re-knot the straps of my coat. “Is your girlfriend going to be upset by me staying here…?”

I trail off as his masculine gaze pins on me. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Girl that’s a friend,” I throw it out there.

“My little sister lives with me,” he clarifies for the first time.

I feel like an idiot. “You have a sister?” I think I’m wincing at myself.

“And four brothers,” he says. “But Katya is the only one who stays with me.”

I relax at the notion that I won’t be causing drama tonight. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. It’s for no other reason. “Does she care that I’m crashing here?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

My breathing is strained, and I know I wear another pained expression. His sister will hate me on our very first encounter, the rude interloper who’s occupying her couch and disturbing her marathons of PoPhilly. “Did you text her earlier or drop any hints?” Please say yes.

“She didn’t answer me. I’m going to tell her right now, and likely, she won’t mind. So breathe, Thora.” His eyes graze my collarbones.

I exhale deeply, taking his word for it.

He climbs the metal stairs, and then his knuckles rap the upstairs door. “Katya,” he says her name with a Russian lilt. “Katya.” Then he adds something in Russian. He stops himself short in what appears to be mid-sentence with a frustrated noise, and then switches to English. “Open the door. I need to talk to you.”

No reply. He twists the knob and disappears inside the room. Only a second later, he rushes out, skipping two or three stairs on his way down.

My pulse jackhammers. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“She’s not in her room.”

I check the time on my phone. “It’s only two in the morning. It’s Vegas, right? She could just be out with her friends.”

He bypasses me and grabs the keycard off the kitchen counter. “She’s only sixteen,” he says, setting those pulsing grays on me. “She has a curfew.”

I’d be panicking if Tanner was wandering around Vegas too, so I immediately understand his concern.

I hang back, uncertain on my place in this situation.

But he stops by the door, a hand on the frame and motions to me. “Come on.”

“I can stay here,” I tell him. “In case she returns.”

“I have cousins for that.”

Maybe he’s afraid I’ll steal something if he leaves me alone. I can understand that too. I’m a stranger, really. I use this fact to head over to him.

“We need to be quick,” he says as I pass his body. “I want to find her before three a.m.”

“What happens after three?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” His voice is deep and hollow. “I’ve always found her before then.”





Act Eleven



2:27 a.m.

My ankles and toes are blistered, the summer heat building beneath my coat. We walk briskly on the crowded strip, and I try to keep up with his lengthy stride to my short one.

The seventh drunk guy whistles at me from afar. I spot him waving his wallet. Nikolai has his hand firmly on the small of my back while he speaks quickly into his phone. If I was venturing alone, I think I’d be a little frightened. I’d need one wingman or wingwoman with me. Like a Camila.

But I can’t deny—a six-foot-five Russian athlete has been the best defense. No one has approached us or even really considered the feat.

I listen to Nikolai’s deep voice, picking up Katya’s name through the jargon. He’s called all of his brothers and now he’s onto a list of his cousins. Apparently she didn’t mention her nightly plans to anyone.

He suddenly pockets his phone. “This way.” His hand tightens on my waist, and he redirects me to a crosswalk, a hoard of people gathered underneath the red-hand symbol.

“You found her?” I ask.

“One of my cousin’s friends saw her at Fellini’s. It’s a restaurant on the strip.” So we’re close. Even so, he never relaxes. His eyes flit to my stilettos. “If your feet start to bleed, tell me.”

I think they’re probably close. I suck up the pain and just nod. His sister is missing, and the last thing he really needs is a five-minute break to inspect a couple blisters.

Cars screech to a halt, and everyone begins to cross. I dodge an incoming girl in a huge feather headdress, like her burlesque show just ended. Nikolai isn’t fazed by the Vegas nightlife, standing erect and steadfast. But all of it distracts me.

The fancy dresses, the limos, the commotion—a city that never sleeps. He nearly braces me to his side, probably so I don’t face-plant in my heels.

“Does your sister break curfew a lot?” I ask.

“Only recently.” He pauses. “She doesn’t want to live in Vegas anymore. She’s been begging me to let her audition for Noctis, and I keep telling her no.”