Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

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 chemically induced non-worry dissipates, my head clearing more by the second. I don’t understand what she means, not fully, but I don’t doubt that she’s sincere, that her warning is meant to protect me.

Drawing back, Alina lights a third joint and extends it toward me. “More?”

“No, thanks. I, um…” I clear my throat to rid it of residual hoarseness. “I actually need the Wi-Fi password. That’s why I came out here to look for you. Also, Nikolai wanted you to set me up on your videoconference platform—if you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

She takes a deep drag and slowly blows out the smoke at my face. “I suppose that can be arranged.” Handing the joint to Lyudmila, she rises to her feet. “Let’s go.”

And with a gait that’s only slightly unsteady, she leads me back to the house.

* * *

When we get to the living room, I hand her the laptop and watch, with no small degree of amazement, as she navigates to the settings and inputs the password, her elegant fingers flying over the keyboard. If not for the strong smell of pot clinging to her hair and clothes—and if I hadn’t personally witnessed her smoking the majority of those two joints, plus however many she’d shared with Lyudmila prior to my arrival—I would’ve never known she’s high.

She’s just as unerring with her installation of the videoconference software and setup of the account, her red-tipped fingers moving at a speed that would do a hacker proud.

“You’re really good at this,” I say after she hands the laptop to me and explains the basics of the software. “Did you major in computer science or something along those lines?”

“God, no.” She laughs. “Economics and PoliSci, same as Nikolai. Konstantin’s the geek in the family—the rest of us are proficient at best.”

“Gotcha. Either way, thanks for this.” I close the laptop and tuck it under my arm. “I’m going to head to bed. Are you…?” I wave in the general direction of the front door.