expecting to see a scarred face, but it was only a boy wearing a white apron and carrying a crate of liquor. “Potrebovalos’ vsego tri minuty, kak ya skazal,” he snickered. “Andrei, ty dolzhen mne—” His gaze found me, and he stared, muttering a Russian, “Holy shit.” Sucking air into my lungs, I stepped back to take in my surroundings. Pd lost my coat somewhere in the alley outside, and my shirt was ripped open, revealing the lacy white bra beneath. My thoughts were trapped underwater, and I couldn’t find the energy to care what I looked like even with an audience. Smoke lazed in the room lit by one weak light bulb. Boxes filled shelves, wooden crates littered the floor, and three men sat at a folding table and chairs, all silently staring at me. One of them chewed on a toothpick, while another leaned back in his chair and brought a cigarette to his lips. His suit jacket lay carelessly open, white button-up beneath, no tie. I coughed on the smoke that twirled in the air. “Potushi sigaretu.” Put out the cigarette. The demand came from behind me, from the man I’d run into, his Russian words caressing my back with something equally hot and cold. It was the kind of voice that could pull a girl feet first into the dark. Leaning forward, the smoker crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Still trying to catch my breath, I turned around. I was five-foot-ten with bare feet, but I only stood eye level with the top button of a black dress shirt that stretched across broad shoulders and defined arms. I looked up. And just before the dizziness caught me in its grasp and dragged me under, I thought he was handsome. Handsome in the way rough palms muffle screams, the way people bow to kings, and most of all . . . the way an angel falls from grace. OceanofPDF.com