"Can I see your invitation?"

I take a quick, panicked survey of the rest of the wedding guests. None of them seem to be holding anything apart from bespoke clutches and glasses of champagne. They look perfectly at ease.

I, on the other hand, am sweating like a whore in church-and it's very, very obvious to my new friend here that I do not have an invitation.

Instead of going through the indignity of being caught out as a gatecrasher, I go for what seems to be the most graceful of my limited options.

I run.

Admittedly, not one of my finer moments.

This dress deserved a better night out. Hell, I deserve a better night out. A better best friend, too, now that I'm compiling a list.

For the moment, I'd settle for a better sprint time than the burly security guard on my tail.

Thankfully, I've got an advantage. The security team following me at a brisk pace across the ballroom seem unwilling to break into a full run so as not to ruffle the invited guests. It gives me enough time to slice through the hall and make it to an elevator.

God must finally be done playing mean tricks on me, because for the first time tonight, I get lucky-one set of doors opens just as I arrive.

I plow into the elevators and start smashing the button that will take me down to the ground floor and to freedom. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, you bastard..."

The doors slowly groan closed. Through the gap, I see the security golems rumbling towards me.

"Close faster, goddammit!" I cry out. "You have one job!"

The guards come closer.

The doors keep closing.

The guards come closer.

The doors are almost closed...

I'm on the verge of letting out my pent-up exhale-there's only an inch left before I'm scot-free-when, suddenly, a huge hand shoots through the gap.

I can only gape in horror as the doors reverse course and the owner of the hand steps in.

The good news is that he's not security.

The bad news is that I'm pretty sure he's much, much worse.

"At ease, gentlemen," he says to the onrushing horde of guards, who promptly freeze at attention like toy soldiers. "She's with me."

Then the doors glide closed.

He's tall, dark, brooding-a dreamboat plagiarized from every single fantasy I've ever had. He's wearing a tuxedo, so he's probably a legit wedding guest, but the scowl on his face says he's not enjoying himself any more than I am.

"Going down?" His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Raspy and low like distant thunder.

"Trying to."

"It might help if you pressed the right button." He reaches over and smoothly plucks my wrist to redirect my hand to the adjacent switch. His fingers are surprisingly gentle on my bare skin, though they burn like he's on fire.

"Oh." My cheeks go red like they're on fire. "Yeah. Thanks."

The doors seal smoothly like they were just waiting for this guy to grant them permission.

"You're sweating."

"You're just full of useful observations, aren't you?" I mumble.

I immediately regret it-he's not the reason I'm in this mess to begin with, so he doesn't deserve my misplaced anger and anxiety.

But if he's offended, he shows no sign of it.

"Here." I blink at his outstretched hand. He's offering me a pristine white handkerchief.

"Thanks," I mumble again, face still flaming. I take it and dab the sweat from my forehead.

"Friend of the bride?" he asks as I give it back to him.

"Uh, sure? Something like that." Deflect. For the love of all that is holy, change the subject now! "What, er... what about you?"

The answer comes immediately. "Andrey Kuznetsov. Brother of the groom."

Shiiiiit.

I'm saved from figuring out what the hell to say to that by another, much worse, problem. Because it seems God isn't anywhere close to being done toying with me.

The elevator grinds to a halt.

I gasp, grabbing the rail of the elevator as it lurches to an abrupt, jarring stop. The shock makes me forget I'm not supposed to be making eye contact. I look up and his eyes snap onto mine.

God help us all.

Those eyes are too ethereal to be human. The irises are a light silver, rimmed with charcoal gray. Or maybe they're blue? There's sort of a bluish, predawn hue, like...

But I can't quite decide what to call it before my attention is stolen by the rest of his face. The straight, proud nose. The sharp, hollow cheekbones. The diamond-carved jaw, sporting just the faintest brush of five o'clock shadow.

Each feature is a standalone actor in its own right-but the ensemble... Muah. Chef's kiss.

Someone stole this man directly from my spank bank...

And then trapped me in the elevator with him.

"Oh my God." I fall back on my initial strategy of attacking the foyer button like a manic woodpecker. "Oh my God, what's happening? What's⁠-"

I freeze when his hand comes down on mine for the second time. "Once again, you're missing the target." He redirects me to the emergency bell in the bottom corner.

I push it and it turns red. Then...

Nothing.

"What now?"

"They'll get to it." He couldn't sound less concerned.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering what kind of fee the dress rental place is gonna charge for excessive sweat stains. But even that worry fades away, because I'm starting to get light-headed, too. And this time, it has nothing to do with him.

"When?" I croak. "When will they get to it?"

"Are you alright?"

No! I want to scream. No, I'm not alright at all. My best friend is a lunatic and I should absolutely not be in this place and you are way too good-looking to be real and my throat feels like it's closing up on me and are the lights getting dimmer or is it just me and is it getting hotter and hotter in here or is that just me...?

I stumble back and my ass hits the wall and I scream before I can choke it back. "I-I-I... don't do well in confined spaces," I manage to stammer.

"You're claustrophobic?"

"I do believe that is the technical term, yes." I feel giddy and insane as I fan myself with one hand. "My Lord, it's hot in here. Are you hot?"

I can't tell if he's amused or completely disgusted by me. "You need to stay calm. Breathe."

"The whole thing about being claustrophobic is that you can't breathe when you want to."

The emergency bell button suddenly flashes. There's some static and then a voice comes through, high and reedy. "Apologies for the inconvenience, folks. We're experiencing some technical difficulties. The elevators will be up and running in the next ten to fifteen minutes."

Great. I'm trapped in a steel box hovering several stories above ground with the brother of the groom whose wedding I was forced into crashing.

Somewhere overhead, God is laughing his ass off.

ANDREY

As far as decoys go, she's a damn good one.

Looks-wise, at least. She's a siren with seductive green eyes and dark hair that falls in voluminous waves down the open back of her very sexy, emerald green dress.

Of course, if we're taking into account skills, I'm not sure she meets the standards of Nikolai Rostov's usual go-to for fucking with my operation.

This girl has no skills to speak of.

She's clutching the walls of the elevator, nails digging into the brocaded padding as her chest rises and falls heavily. Either this is all part of the ruse-if in fact she is working for Nikolai-or she's genuinely claustrophobic.

"... ten to fifteen minutes," she mutters on repeat. "Ten to fifteen minutes... Ten to fifteen..."

I clear my throat loudly and she flinches, her eyes snapping to mine.

No, she's no decoy. Say what you want about Nikolai Rostov, but his ploys usually have a little more finesse.

Although, considering the call I received from my number-two, Shura, minutes ago-the whole reason I'm even in this elevator with this skittish little lastochka-I might need to reconsider that opinion.

Blyat', this wedding has been a disaster so far.

"H-how long do you think it's been?" she asks tentatively. The flush on her cheeks has traveled down to her chest.

"Thirty seconds, give or take."

A whoosh of terror escapes through her parted lips. For a moment, it sounds like she's about to hack up a hairball. "Th-thirty seconds..." She turns her back on me and claws the wall padding a little tighter. "Oh, God, I'm not gonna make it."

The silk of her dress hugs her ass to perfection. If I squint, I can just make out the subtle line of her panties pressing through the fabric.

"Counting down the minutes isn't going to help."

"What will help?" she demands. "And don't you dare tell me to stay calm. Don't tell me to breathe, either."

I suppress a smile as she whirls back around. "Pretend we're outside. Somewhere pleasant. A sunny, open-air café, maybe, and we're waiting for the barista to call out our orders."

"Open air," she echoes as her eyelashes flutter wildly. "Um, okay. I'm... I'm waiting for my order..."

"Describe it to me."

"Chocolate frappe with an extra shot of chocolate and whipped cream," she blurts immediately. "And cherries. Lots of cherries."

I grimace. "Jesus."

She smiles self-consciously, revealing a faint dimple in her cheek. "It's my comfort drink, okay? It's what I order any time I'm sad or nervous or freaked out."

"You're missing the point. It's sunny and breezy and nice. You're not freaking out. You're perfectly calm."

"Right. Calm." She gulps and her eyelids stop their frantic fluttering. For the first time since the elevator ground to a halt, she draws in something resembling a full breath. "My aunt had a cherry tree in the back of her house when I was growing up. We had cherry pies on Friday, cherry sundaes on Saturday, and plain ol' cherries on Sundays, 'just the way God intended them.'" She blushes. "That's how my Aunt Annie would say it."

She's clutching the little gold locket around her neck so hard that the chain is embedding itself in the skin of her neck.

Then her eyes blink open and the tension comes roaring back. "Sorry. I'm rambling. We're at the café. It's nice, it's sunny, it tastes like cherries. What did you order?"

"Whiskey. Neat." Devil knows I deserve something strong after this clusterfuck of a day.

"What kind of café is this?" she laughs deliriously.

"My kind."

"Fair enough." She lowers her attention to picking at her fingernails. "How many minutes do you think we have now?"

"Thirteen, give or take."

"Fuck me!"

The moment the words leave her mouth, she goes bright pink. A gentleman would pretend as though she hadn't said anything.

Unfortunately for her, I've never been accused of being a gentleman.

"I'd consider it, but I'm not sure thirteen minutes will be anywhere near enough."

Her jaw drops.

The flush on her cheeks and chest continues to spread. Where would it go if I followed it? I wonder. If I peeled that dress apart and worked my way down the valley of her breasts, and lower, and lower...

Easy there, Andrey. You have a wedding to attend.

Not to mention the situation I was on my way to handle when this fucking elevator decided to hold us hostage.

She seems to be working up the courage to say something. I wait patiently.

"You'll have to find another wedding guest to proposition for sex. I'm not interested."

"I believe you were the one propositioning me," I remind her.

"I wasn't... That wasn't... You misunderstood..." When I chuckle low, her eyebrows pinch together. "Oh. You're teasing me."

"Rude of me, I suppose. Here you are in the throes of a panic attack and I'm screwing with you."

"I can't blame you. I know I make it easy."

I wonder what she means by that. Actually, I'm wondering a lot of things about this little lastochka. Like how someone as guileless as her could have ended up on my brother's wedding list. She could be a friend of Mila's, but I met enough of Mila's simpering friends today to confidently rule that out.

"Remind me: how do you know the bride and groom?"

She pales visibly. She looks as though that's the worst question I could have possibly asked her. Which of course means it's the right one to ask. "Uh... just a friend."

"A friend of Viktor's or Mila's?"

She swallows and shuffles from one stilettoed heel to the other. "Um, both."

"If I didn't know any better, lastochka-" She flinches when the Russian rolls off my tongue. "-I'd say you were lying to me."

She wipes her palms on the sides of her dress. "The thing is⁠-"

Before I can find out what 'the thing' is, a resounding ring emanates from my jacket pocket. I pull out my phone to find my second-in-command's name on the display.

Cursing under my breath, I answer. "What is it, Shura?"

"Just got to the grounds. I'm standing in front of the intruder right now..." There's something hesitant in Shura's voice.

"Well? Is he one of Nikolai's?"

"He isn't talking-but yes, definitely one of Nikolai's."

I have to be careful how I phrase this, considering the second pair of ears in the elevator with me. "You'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to chat with us."

"Uh, right. The thing is-he's a child."

I make Shura repeat it to ensure I'm hearing correctly. I get the same answer the second time around. "How young are we talking?"

"Teenager?" he guesses. "He's about halfway to a mustache, if that paints a helpful picture for you."

This shit makes me sick to my stomach. What the fuck is Nikolai doing, sending in a boy to do a man's job? Then again, he's also the bastard who makes his fortune profiting off the sale of women and children.

Made his fortune that way, rather. Not anymore, though. Not since a few months ago, when I shut down his human trafficking business for good.

Which, incidentally, is what set off this campaign of retaliation against me.

I check the time on my watch. "I won't be able to get away for another couple of hours. Keep an eye on him until I get there."

I hang up to find my phone blowing up with texts from Viktor.

VIKTOR: What the fuck? Where are you? Ceremony's about to start!

VIKTOR: Bro-you're the fucking best man. Not to mention the goddamn pakhan. You need to be here.

VIKTOR: I can't believe you're not here after YOU forced me to marry the bitch.

Sometimes, I forget what an asshole my little brother can be. Luckily, I can always rely on him to remind me.

I ignore all his messages and turn my focus back on the quivering woman in the elevator with me. Good timing, too, because apparently, the two-minute call with Shura is all it took to completely unravel her.

She's back to being a sweaty, clammy mess, scraping at the wall padding like a cat going through withdrawals.

Real or fake? I still haven't fully made up my mind. This could be real. It could also be an attempt to distract me from the fact that she's obviously not supposed to be at this wedding at all.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Those green eyes of hers go wide and trembly. Then, without any warning, she collapses in a dead faint.

"Oh, fucking hell."

I drop to one knee beside her. I tap her face, but she doesn't so much as stir.

Her chest is heaving, though. Stuttering, almost, like the stitching in the dress where it binds across her chest is handcuffing her lungs.

It's pure survival instinct that moves me next.

Not lust. Definitely not lust.

No, I tell myself as I gather two fistfuls of the fabric. This is solely to help her breathe.

Then I rip her dress apart like tissue paper.

Her exposed skin is pale and cold to the touch. When I hover a palm over her mouth to feel her breathing, it's too still.

Only one way to go from here.

But it's not lust. It's definitely not lust.

I lower my face to the girl's. Her lips part as I get close, like she knows what's coming and she wants it.

Closer.

Closer.

Her scent is sweet and my dick has never been harder.

And then, just like that, I'm ripped back in time.

Because I've been here before. In exactly this situation, kneeling beside a cold, shivering woman and preparing to give her my breath.

I know how that ended. I feel the grief of it in the pit of my stomach every single day of my fucking life.

This kiss is to heal; that one was nothing more than a belated goodbye.

My lips seal to the girl's. I exhale to fill her lungs. Turn and feel her heartbeat. Exhale again. Check her pulse. I do it all one more time, and just when I'm wondering if I ought to be preparing last rites instead-why won't this fucking elevator move, goddammit?!-she makes a noise.

"Mmmm..."

It's a moan. There's no other word for it. It's a moan. Low and dreamy and undeniable.

And, like magic, it brings her back to life.

The emerald lastochka's eyes fly open and she shoves herself upright, just barely missing cracking her skull against mine. She scrambles backward to a hunched seat in the corner. "Oh my God." She slaps a hand over her mouth like she can shove the moan back in there. "W-what the hell...?"

Before I can explain, the elevator shudders into motion. Like it has a mind of its own, it takes us back to where we came from.

Ping. "Fifth floor."

The doors open onto the ballroom. I can see my brother standing amidst a throng of his useless, half-drunk friends. One of them spots me and claps Viktor on the back.

I feel a blur of motion at my side. In the second it takes me to signal to him that I'm coming, the little lastochka has darted out of the elevator, ducked between two security guards, and careened out of sight.

I let her go-for now.

My mind was made up as soon as I tasted her, so her quick getaway is just the nail in her coffin.

I've never met a mystery I couldn't solve.

And she's a mystery I'm determined to get to the bottom of.

3

NATALIA

"Watch where you're going!"

I stumble backwards, wilting on the spot at the murderous glance I'm getting from the six-foot-tall woman I just ran right into. She pulls her white fur stole tighter around her body and skewers me with a disdainful glare.

I follow her gaze to the ruined neckline of my dress. Is my boob hanging out? Well, would ya look at that? It sure is. Nice going, Nat. Way to be an upstanding member of polite society.

"S-sorry," I mutter awkwardly as I shove the girls back in place.

The haughty woman rolls her eyes and walks away, talking loudly enough for me to hear. "Honestly, if I'd known they'd be inviting the riff-raff, I'd have stayed home. I expect more from the Kuznetsovs."

Katya would have tackled the snobby bitch to the floor and strangled her with her own chinchilla. But all I can muster in my current state of flustered undress is a pathetic sniffle in her direction before I run off in search of a place to hide.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. My thoughts are as much of a mess as my dress is.

Is security following me?

Is he following me?

Where the fuck is Katya?!

As though I've pulled her from thin air by the strength of my thoughts, a door opens to the side. Katya's slim arm darts out, grabs me, and hauls me in after her like Satan himself dragging me down into hell.

Where the hell have you been?" she breathes in my face. "I've been looking for you everywhere!"

This is so typical of Katya. Usually, I just laugh it off.

But nothing about today is "usual." Today, I've been forced into crashing a wedding, chased by security guards, trapped in an elevator. And the cherry on top of the shit sundae? I completely and totally humiliated myself in front of the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on.

That moan will be echoing in my nightmares for the rest of eternity.

"Me?" I explode. "Me?!"

Katya takes a startled step back. Only then does she seem to notice that my clothes aren't sitting right. "Your, uh... your dress is a little torn up there, babe."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious." I grab the neckline and try to pull it into place. For a moment, it obeys-but as soon as I let go, it withers right back like a dying flower.

"Okay, calm down. Let me try." She toys with it for a second, then magically produces some safety pins from a box on the shelves at our elbows and works some witchcraft that fixes it right up.

"There! Good as new." She wiggles her eyebrows at me. "You wanna tell me why you're running around half-dressed with sex hair and smudged lipstick?"

"Is my lipstick smudged?" I pivot on the spot in search of a mirror, but of course, the utility closet is fresh out of those. Just as well-I can't bear looking at myself right now.

"Only a little."

I whimper and cover my face with my hands for a three-second pity party. It's all we have time for. "We have to get the hell out of here. Now!"

Katya has the audacity to look puzzled. "But the ceremony's about to start!"

I feel insane. Am I? Or is she?

"For fuck's sake, Kat-you seriously wanna watch your ex-boyfriend get married to the woman he cheated on you with?"

"Yes! Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Call me a masochist, but I wanna see it and I can't do it alone."

"Since when?"

"Since I decided everything's more fun in twos," she explains dismissively. Like that just about settles things, she opens the door a crack. "Look at all those rich assholes... Is that Leo?"

"As in DiCaprio?"

"What other Leo matters?" she sighs as if I'm a lost cause. "Wouldn't it be just a terrible tragedy if he and I met and we fell in love and got married in a ceremony twice as expensive as this one?"

I roll my eyes. She's joking-mostly. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you're almost twenty-eight now. You've aged out of Leo's dating pool."

"Have you seen my ass?" Katya counters, sticking it out for my benefit.

What I'd prefer to see instead of my insane best friend's posterior is some hope that we can get out of here unscathed.