Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(35)

“Pissing on the street shouldn’t even be a crime,” Luka retorts, still gawking. He outstretches his arms like come on.

Nikolai just glares. Right at him.

And Luka shrinks back, his shoulders lowering in regret. He just now registers his little sister in Nikolai’s arms, and guilt spreads across his face. It’s clear to me that Nikolai has a lot of influence over them—that his words matter to his siblings.

“I’ll take Kat back to her room,” Luka offers, glancing once over his shoulder. Timo staggers as he laughs, full-bellied ones that brighten his face beneath the gold carnival mask. He rests his hip on the map kiosk while his humor overtakes him. “He wants to go to Hex down the street.”

Nikolai rubs his jaw. “The bar that closes at five?”

“Yeah.” Luka scoops his little sister, cradling her body with ease. “You can’t tell him no. He’s eighteen.”

“Just let me handle it,” he says. “Keep your phone on. Don’t steal anything. And thank you for calling me about him.”

Luka nods, mutters a few things in Russian, and breaks from the pack, aiming for the elevators. This shift in the group alerts Timo, and it takes him about one-point-two seconds to finally zone in on us.

He points his gold staff at me with a dazzling wide grin and says, “Thora James.” Then he bows. I can’t smile this time, partially because I feel Nikolai boiling beside me.

It’s like when I’m in the air, about to land a double layout, and I know I’ve overcorrected. I know that I’m going to stumble when I hit the mat.

It’s just like that.

I see the bad thing before it happens. It’s rare that I fixate on the incoming storm, but I’m starting to, I realize.

Timo notices Nikolai beside me, and his sparkling grin slowly fades.

Nikolai steps forward, and the entire group silences. More out of respect than fear, I believe. The power he possesses, over a bunch of rowdy, drunken guys, takes me aback. “You didn’t check on Katya like I asked,” he says lowly.

Timo leans his bodyweight on the staff. “I called her. Chill out, Nikolai. Or better yet, go to bed.” He laughs, expecting everyone to join in with him. No one does. The rest of the guys mutter quietly and shake their heads. Everyone is on the God of Russia’s side. No one cheers against him.

Except maybe Timo.

Nikolai speaks again, his voice harsh and words coarse. Someone wins a jackpot, the casino floor blaring the electric slide song. Nikolai never trips up, and Timo’s knuckles whiten on his staff. They shout back and forth—for what feels like five minutes, until we’re ushered outside by hotel management.

On the other side of the glass doors, no cool breeze lessens the sticky heat beneath my coat. I linger, unsure of where my place is again. Then Timo pushes his mask up to his forehead, their argument switching to English for the first time.

“I’m not twelve anymore!” Timo screams, pain leeching his voice. His face reddens with the words. “I want to live my life, and you can either follow me or leave me alone.” He hails a cab, shutting his brother out.

Nikolai breathes deeply, like he’s run a full marathon. He rubs his lips and then turns his head, searching almost. I’m surprised when his gray irises land on me, about ten feet away. He gestures to me with two fingers like come here.

I approach, wobbling in my heels. His eyes flit to them once.

For some reason, I decide to speak first, “Do you need…a hug?” I internally cringe at how lame that probably seemed.

The corner of his lip tics upward, barely. “No, but I have to make one more pit stop. I’m not leaving him with my cousins.”

I swallow my uncertainty. “I can wait here if you want.”

“I don’t want that,” he tells me. “I’d rather you join me. Don’t ask me why.” He shakes his head a couple times. “Because I still don’t have an answer.”

Part of me questions whether he sees me as a sibling. Like another Timo and Katya and Luka to fret over. It worries me. Because in no way do I want to saddle this guy with more stress. That’s not my intention by staying in Vegas. If that’s the case, I can step out of his world.

“Your eyes are black,” he notes, his lips downturned. “If you want to stay—”

“Do you think of me as a sister?” I suddenly ask. “Is that why I’m here? I mean, here, as in crashing at your place. And…” I look around at the outside of The Masquerade, taxi cabs dropping off drunken girls and more casino high-rises lit-up and twinkling in the distance. It’s one of those moments that I just wonder—how did I end up right here in my life? In Vegas. With a fourth generation artist. It’s one of those surreal moments that I don’t want to take back, even if it’s confusing and muddled and gray.

I feel his fingers beneath my chin. He tilts my head, so that I irrefutably meet his powerful gaze. I see the answer in them. Before he even says it.

“No, Thora.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, each fingertip hot. His grasp protective. He steps nearer, his legs knocking against mine, tension winding my muscles. His other hand cups my jaw, most of me in his possession. Right now.

It’s definitely not a familial gesture. It’s not even a friendly one. Shay would never touch me like this. He would never let his body do the talking like Nikolai. He’d tell me straight up: “I think you’re cute, but not like that, Thora. Come on, we’re friends.”