Alexei
Ihave been sitting in the back of the SUV for twenty minutes, checking my watch for the third time as the numbers roll over to 8 PM. She should have been finished by now. I stay hidden behind the tinted glass, feeling like a predator - or a stalker, if I am being honest with myself - but I want to see her face when she realizes I’m here to pick her up personally.
The restaurant doors finally swing open, and I watch as Zoya stumbles out onto the sidewalk. It only takes a single glance to realize she is drunk; her gait is heavy and unsteady, her cheeks flushed a deep rose, and even from this distance, I can see the glazed sheen in her eyes.
Viktor moves with his usual efficiency to open the car door, but she just stands there, staring at the open interior and then down the length of the street. I know that look immediately - it is the stubbornness taking hold.
“I’m going to walk for a bit,” I hear her mutter through the door, her voice thick. “I need to walk off the booze.”
Viktor doesn’t skip a beat. “I’ll follow at a distance.”
“I figured,” she sighs, already beginning to drift away from the car and away from me.
I watch her disappear around the corner before quietly slipping out the opposite side of the SUV. With a quick signal to Viktor to trail us in the car, I start following her on foot, sticking to the shadows. There is no way in hell I am letting her wander through Moscow alone at night in this state.
I track her for a few blocks, watching as she sways slightly in her heels, her movements aimless and erratic. Suddenly, she stops, her pace quickening as she almost trips over her ownfeet. Even through the alcohol, her instincts are sharp enough to realize she is being followed.
She ducks into a dark alley and spins around, her voice echoing off the brick walls. “Stop acting like a fucking stalker creep!” she yells into the darkness.
I step out from the gloom, unable to suppress a smirk. She squints at me, her hair starting to escape its ponytail in messy strands as she pouts. “I knew it was you,” she grumbles.
“I’m sorry,” I say, closing the distance between us.
“No, you’re not.”
I stop right in front of her, looking down into her defiant face. “You’re right. I’m not sorry for following you, Zoya. I’m only sorry I got caught.”
She let out a huff of breath, looking undeniably adorable in her failed attempt at anger. I reach out to guide her. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” she says, swaying into me. “I want fresh air.”
“We can go to the car, and I’ll blast the AC. We’ll get you settled, maybe get some water in you…”
“No.” She plants her feet like a child refusing to leave a playground. “I said I want fresh air. Real, outside air.”
“Zoya, don't be difficult.”
“Make me,” she challenges, turning on her heel and heading toward the park across the street.
I follow her, signaling Viktor to stay back. There is no point in arguing with a drunk woman; it is easier to let her walk it off while I stay close enough to catch her if she falls. We reach a cluster of trees near the edge of the woods where she halts, fanning herself with a hand.
“I’m hot,” she complains, and before I can respond, she sheds her coat, tossing it onto the grass, and reaches for the zipper of her dress.
“Whoa, wait a second,” I say, catching her hands in mine. “We aren't doing this in public. I’d rather not have to kill a stranger tonight because they caught a glimpse of you naked.”
“Oh, okay,” she whispers, looking up at me with wide, glassy eyes. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair a disaster. She looks like a beautiful, chaotic mess. “But I’m still taking my clothes off. Unless... you want to do it for me?”
She tries to make the offer sound sultry, but it comes out breathy and slurred. Still, the visual is enough to make my blood pressure spike. She reaches down and hikes the hem of her dress up to her hips, revealing the pale blue thong I remember all too well from our video call.
“Do you like it?” she asks, swaying as she seeks my reaction. “Did you see it before? Did you?”
My mouth goes dry, every ounce of my self-control straining against the sudden rush of heat in my veins. “Why are you so reckless when you drink?” I ask, forcing myself to pull her dress back down despite the instinct to do the exact opposite. “You’re usually so level-headed. Should I be worried about you going out with those girls?”
She pouts again, her bottom lip trembling as her eyes grow watery. “Is it because I’m drunk? You don’t find me sexy anymore?”
“God help me, I do,” I say, cupping her face and forcing myself to be gentle. “But flashing the world is only going to end in a bloodbath. Let’s get you home, get you into a warm bath, and tomorrow you can go back to being a bride-to-be.”
“No.” She reaches down, her hand disappearing under her dress, and before I can move, she grabs my hand and shoves it between her legs.