Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,54

the tip of her shoe, and I hazily register the fact that she’s wearing stilettos and a blue cocktail dress that would be perfect for an art gallery opening. Her only concession to the wilderness surrounding us is a white faux fur draped around her slender shoulders—presumably to keep out the chill. She’s also wearing her usual lipstick and eyeliner.

“Lyudmila said you had a headache,” I say before I can think better of it. “Do you dress up and put on makeup even when you’re sick?”

Alina laughs softly and lights another joint. Taking a drag, she offers it to Lyudmila, who does the same and offers it to me. I start reaching for it but change my mind. I know from experience that I’m about as mellow as I’m going to get; anything more will just make me slow-witted. Not that I’m not already—that first joint was potent stuff, as strong as anything I’ve tried. Besides, there was a reason I came out here, and it wasn’t to get stoned.

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, pulling my hand back, and with a shrug, Lyudmila returns the joint to Alina.

I watch the flames crackle and dance while the two of them smoke and converse in Russian. I wish I spoke the language so I could understand them, but I don’t and the smooth rhythm of their speech reminds me of a burbling mountain stream, the words flowing into one another, defying comprehension.

Is that what it’s like for Slava when I speak? Or for Lyudmila?

Is that what it was like for my mom when she was first brought to America from Cambodia?

She’d never spoken much about her early years; all I know is that she was adopted by the missionary couple when she was around Slava’s age. I’d never pressed her for details, not wanting to evoke any bad memories. I’d figured we’d have a lifetime to talk about whatever, and she’d tell me eventually, if there was anything to tell.

I was a short-sighted idiot.

I should’ve learned everything there was to know about my mom when I had the chance.

Alina’s laughter catches my attention, and I shift my gaze from the dancing flames to her face, studying each striking feature. It would be easy to envy her, both for her extraordinary beauty and her wealth, but for some reason, I don’t get the impression that Nikolai’s sister is particularly happy. Even now, when she must be more than a little high, there’s a brittle edge to her laughter… a peculiar fragility underneath her glossy façade. And maybe it’s the glow of firelight softening the porcelain perfection of her skin, but tonight, she seems younger than the mid-to-late twenties I pegged her for.

Much younger.

“How old are you?” I blurt, suddenly worried I might’ve accepted pot from a teenager. A split second later, I recall that she finished Columbia, so she has to be at least my age, but it’s too late to take back my overly personal question.

To my relief, Alina doesn’t seem to think it inappropriate. “Twenty-four,” she replies in a dreamy tone. “Twenty-five next week.” Her eyes slightly out of focus, she reaches over and touches my hair, rubbing one strand between her fingers. “Anyone ever mention you look a bit like Zoë Kravitz?” Not waiting for a reply, she trails her fingertips over my jaw. “I can see why my brother wants you. So pretty… so sweet and fresh…”

Laughing awkwardly, I swat her hand away. “You are so stoned.” I can feel Lyudmila’s gaze on us, curious and judging, and my face warms as I reflect on how much of Alina’s words she’s understood—and what she already knows. These two seem to be good friends, and I wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of their earlier laughter was at my expense.

“Extremely stoned,” Alina agrees, throwing the second stub into the fire. “But that doesn’t change the facts.” Propping her elbows on her knees, she leans in, firelight dancing in her eyes as she says quietly, “Don’t fall for him, Chloe. He’s not your white knight.”

I draw back. “I’m not looking for a—”

“But you are.” Her voice stays soft, even as her gaze sharpens to a knife’s edge, all haziness disappearing. “You need a white knight, noble and kind and pure, a protector to cherish and love you. And my brother can’t be that for you, or for anyone. Molotov men don’t love, they possess—and Nikolai is no exception.”

I stare at her, my stomach turning hollow as the pleasant state of