Midnight Oath (Tasarov Bratva 1)

I feign a sip of wine, but Malcolm is too busy schmoozing with the suited man next to us to notice. I take the opportunity to put some distance between us again.

Turning my back to him, I take in the ballroom. It makes me roll my eyes. A ballroom, in a private home, in the year of our Lord 2022? Wonders never cease.

Or maybe it’s horrors that don’t cease. I can never remember the saying.

Two women wearing ornate gowns in horrifying shades of green and purple stop next to me. I follow their gaze up to see intricate paintings of gods and goddesses on the vaulted ceilings overhead. They’re mostly nude, with some hilariously disproportionate genitals.

Some of them I recognize from a mythology elective I took in high school. The scene directly above me depicts Ares and Aphrodite, twisted in passion. Their son, Eros, is in the frame below, lying in bed next to his mortal wife, Psyche.

“Do you think they’re real?” the woman in green asks. “Or wallpaper?”

“They’re expensive,” her friend replies. “That’s all I know.”

“Of course it is. We’re talking about the Tasarovs, after all. Infinite money, those people.”

The woman in purple dips her head, but fails to lower her voice. “I’ve heard they’re… connected. Do you think it’s true?”

“With a house like this, I’d believe anything.”

The two women wander off. I look around again when they’re gone. I’ve never seen so much gold in my life. I’d believe anything they told me about the owner of this place, too—whoever he is.

Suddenly, a clammy hand lands on my exposed back. “You aren’t drinking your wine.”

“I told you I didn’t want anything,” I hiss.

Malcolm brings his mouth to my ear, every syllable sending the worst kind of shivers down my spine. “And I told you your daughter’s future depends on you listening to me, you little bi—”

“Hello, there,” a deep, velvety voice says, interrupting Malcolm mid-tirade.

I look up. A tall, dark-haired man with the sharpest jaw I’ve ever seen is looking at me.

For a second, I could almost believe he came straight from one of the paintings on the ceiling. A god brought to life, all sharp lines and golden skin.

Except he’s traded in his toga for a perfectly tailored Armani suit. I’ve never seen someone wear an item of clothing so well. And it seems the stranger knows it. His eyes gleam with a piercing arrogance.

Before I can say anything, Malcolm reaches around me. “Hello, Mr.—”

“It’s so good to see you again,” the man interrupts, reaching for my hand and ignoring Malcolm entirely. “I had no idea you’d be here tonight.”

“You two know each other?” Malcolm butts in.

Do we know each other? Well, strictly speaking, no. The answer is “no” in every other sense of the word, too.

But this stranger is looking at me like he’s actually happy to see me. And despite not having a single clue who he is, I’m happy to see him, too.

I doubt I’m the only woman with that opinion. Half the females in this room have their eyes glued to him in open adoration right now.

The other half are staring jealous daggers at me.

“We do,” he says firmly, not giving me time to formulate an answer. “Old friends—isn’t that right?”

I’m struck dumb, but I see it for what it is: a window of opportunity.

And still, I hesitate. I have no idea who this guy is. He could be crazy. He could be a murderer. He could be a crazy murderer.

But if I disagree with him, I’ll be stuck with Malcolm. That makes things easy.

Fuck the devil I do know. The devil I don’t looks a lot more appealing.

“So good to see you again,” I say, squeezing his hand back. He pulls me forward, further from Malcolm. I like where his head is at. Anywhere but here.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs.

It isn’t a question.

He bows low and lifts my hand. I feel like a princess—and amongst all this gold, who says I’m not?

I blush. “I’d love to.”

I don’t need to turn around to know Malcolm is livid. I can practically feel the heat of the glare he is shooting into my back. But he doesn’t dare interrupt for fear of causing a scene.

People part around us as we walk through the crowd to the center of the dance floor. Once we’re in place, the stranger stops and spins me into him. Seamlessly, one of his hands is at my waist and the other holds my hand high.

Without a word, we begin to dance.

I’ve never been much of a dancer. In high school, I was lucky to sway side to side with a boy without falling over.

But with this stranger, I’m floating. He pulls me, coaxes me, has me melting into him like I was always made to follow his lead.

Like I was born to do it.

When he spins me around gracefully, I catch Malcolm out of the corner of my eye, fuming on the sidelines. He doesn’t dare to come any closer.

He has the audacity, I know that much. And he isn’t shy in front of a crowd. So I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.

As I look around, I realize there are an awful lot of people.

And worse, they’re all looking at us.