10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 2

I never knew that the expression “When one door closes, another opens” could happen quite so literally. I thought that was the kind of thing a lazy copywriter puts on Chinese takeout fortune cookies.

But scarcely two minutes after the bathroom door closes on one chapter of my life, the stall door swings open to begin another.

My first thought when I see him is, Damn—I really nailed it.

Because the man standing framed in the stall entryway is exactly how I pictured him to a freaking T.

My gaze starts at his feet, which I’ve already spent an exhaustive amount of mental energy analyzing. It rises up the streamlined pleat of his ash-gray suit pants, past strong thighs and a lean waist, grazing over how his white shirt clings to six very clearly defined abs, up to where the narrow V of his tieless collar reveals a smattering of dark chest hair and the briefest glimpse of a tattoo etched into the tan skin just beneath his throat.

From there, it keeps going. It drinks in the blunt, brutal cliff of his chin. The sloping jawline stubbled with the beginnings of a beard. A proud, jutting noise, cheekbones that Tom Welling would slay for, and eyes so blue that I can feel the cold burn of their stare. His hair is dark, curly, and tousled where it falls over his forehead.

My second thought is, The CW fucked up. They should’ve cast him.

Even now, after hearing him casually order some subordinate to commit murder, I can’t help but feel that girlish giggle bubbling up inside me. Same as twelve-year-old me felt when Superman rose out of that cornfield in his birthday suit, like, Golly gee, you sure are handsome!

I wouldn’t dare say that out loud, though.

Because Superman here looks like he’s ready to commit some murder of his own.

His hands are flexing at his sides. I see more tattoos stamped into his knuckles—letters in Cyrillic, which immediately makes it click in my head that it was Russian he was speaking into the phone a moment ago. Thin, white scars run between the ink. Those hands look highly capable. I’d very much like to not replace how just how capable.

“I’d say ‘Take a picture; it will last longer,’ but you’ve been staring at me long enough that I’m pretty fucking sure you have it all memorized by now,” he spits. The voice matches his eyes: cold as the grave, rough, relentless.

I start to squeak, “Sorry,” then I stop and scold myself for the girly uptalk intonation and for even daring to apologize in the first place. Then I remember that I am in fact in the wrong bathroom and I start to say it again. Then I stop and scold myself for stuttering like a buffoon. Then I⁠—

“For God’s sake, spit it out,” the man snaps.

I frown and squint. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

Gotta give credit where it’s due: that’s certainly not a meek, simpy apology. Is it a smart thing to say, though?

Probably not.

To my surprise, the man blinks placidly. He doesn’t smile—I’d worry about the structural integrity of his broodiness if he even tried—but some imperceptible portion of his frigid rage fades away.

“‘Kind of’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“An honest asshole, at least,” I concede.

He shakes his head. “Definitely not that.” Then he eyes me and holds out a hand. “Are you going to squat on that toilet like a gargoyle for our entire conversation, or would you like help down?”

I eye the hand he’s offering. It’s even more intimidating up close. I know some girls are into guys’ hands, and I get that, and it really is a very nice hand, aesthetically speaking.

But something about the scars in combination with the easy, breezy, beautiful murder threat he issued in the very recent past is giving me pause.

Carefully, using the handrail attached to the stall wall instead of the male hand attached to the devil in the gray suit, I lower myself from my toilet perch and assume a quasi-normal human posture.

“It’s fine; I can do it mys⁠—”

I promptly collapse.

It’s my knees that betray me. Thirty-three doesn’t seem that old in the grand scheme of things, but I’m a New Yorker born and bred, so I’ve put a lot of miles on these joints of mine, walking up avenues and down streets since I was old enough to put one foot in front of the other. Apparently, five minutes of holding a power squat on the Met’s toilets is asking too much of what cartilage remains.

I’m hurtling towards a hot date with the floor when the man moves. He’s fast and languid at the same time, and I could almost swear I see him roll his eyes as he intervenes.

Then that same hand that I turned down a moment ago loops around my waist and stops me from concussing myself with my own pride. Effortlessly, without losing so much as a hair out of place, he drags me back to my feet and settles me there.

The hand, though, stays plastered to my hip.

“You’re kind of an idiot,” he says matter-of-factly.

He’s kidding—I think he’s kidding, at least, because he’s using my own words to mock me and those eyes of his are gleaming in a mischievous sort of way—but the cement-mixer-churning-glaciers quality of his voice doesn’t really change.

Playing along, I reply, “‘Kind of’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I glance down at his hand, huge and splayed across my waist. “But thank you for saving me.”

He nods, once, briskly, then peels his hand away. The heat and pressure of it lingers long after it’s gone.

“I think it’s safe to assume you’re not a spy,” the man drawls. “Either that or you’re the worst one in the history of the profession.”

I force out a wheezy, panicked laugh. “I’m a professional spy, actually. In a manner of speaking.”

His forehead wrinkles, those thick, dark brows arrowing downward. “You can’t be ser⁠—”

“Reporter,” I blurt before the murdery glint in his eyes comes roaring back to life. “I was making a joke. Not a very good one, apparently.”

He keeps frowning, but the wrinkles smooth away enough to let me breathe again. “You’re a reporter,” he repeats, stroking his jawline. “Hm. Here to report on…?”

I wave a hand in the general direction of the ballroom where tonight’s gala is taking place. “The illustrious generosity of our fine host and his many important charitable causes, for which he cares quite deeply and genuinely and definitely not just for the PR and tax write-offs.”

The man makes a short barking noise. It takes me a second to realize that that’s what passes for a laugh from him. “I don’t think Leander can even spell ‘generous.’”

I do a double-take. There aren’t many people in this world willing to talk shit about Leander Makris, much less to a complete stranger. The man has a sufficiently bloody reputation that it’s just not worth the risk.

This man, however, couldn’t possibly care any less. As I try to puzzle out just who he is that he’d dare speak so freely about a guy with more murder and racketeering allegations than Brooklyn has baristas, he rakes a hand through his hair and checks his watch.

“Somewhere to be?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Just trying to figure out how long I can hide in here before I have to go mingle with the vultures again.”

It’s my turn to laugh, though hopefully, I sound like less of a barking seal than my new friend here did. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s afraid of social obligations.”

His scowl darkens. “It’s them who should be afraid. If I have to endure one more conversation about Upper West Side brownstone renovations or the guest list of the mayor’s New Year’s Ball, I’m going to put a fucking bullet in someone’s skull.”

Again, I’m fairly sure he’s making a joke, the same way I told Gina yesterday that if I have to fetch one more nonfat iced mocha latte with extra whip for Sportswriter Steve, I’m going to commit seppuku on the Brooklyn Bridge.

But also, I can’t quite forget that he did just literally discuss murder on the phone, so the joke hits a little too close to home for comfort.

“Well,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties for the evening. Sounds like your hands are full, and besides, I’ve really only been dying to talk about this new backsplash that my neighbor had installed in her…”

He holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’t. Not even as a joke.”

“Noted,” I say, miming zipping my lips. “Backsplashes are off the table.”

But as I make the motion, the man’s eyes lock onto something. That furrow in his brow returns, carved deeper than ever.

I’m confused, until he says in a stern growl, “You’re bleeding.”

I look down and, yep, turns out that inconvenient speed bump in my evening hasn’t magically disappeared. I feel the familiar lurch in my stomach, the seasick tingle of blood rippling down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

I wobble a bit. The man’s hand flies out to steady me once again. “It’s really not a big⁠—”

“Hush,” he orders, and I immediately fall silent like he just mashed the mute button on the Ariel Ward remote control. “Sink. Now.”

Just like that, I’m a marionette in his grasp. He pilots me and my legs obey as we drift toward the sink together.

I’m suddenly powerless to do anything that he doesn’t tell me to do. Can’t wait, can’t think, can’t argue, can’t flee. I can only receive things, isolated little sensations that come and go like passing clouds.

His hands are big.

He smells nice. Kinda minty.

He’s tall, too. Very tall. Some might say too tall. Not me, though. I wouldn’t say that. I’d say he’s a very good height.

“Let go.”

I follow his gaze down to realize I’m death-gripping my own pinky finger. It’s going a weird purply-white at the end from lack of circulation. I let him uncurl one digit at a time until I’ve given up the grasp and he’s got my sliced hand cradled in his palm.

He turns on the sink with his free hand and checks the water a few times until it’s warm enough. He looks at me. “Don’t scream. They’ll think I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”

Before I can ask who “they” is and question whether maybe they’d be right and whether this whole situation is in fact a bad idea, he passes my hand under the faucet.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from screaming. White-hot pain flashes through me—but only for a second. Right on its heels is a warm ease.

I can unclench. I can breathe.

“I don’t like blood,” I explain sheepishly once I open my eyes again.

The man is looking at me, appraising, calm. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. “I’m a better reporter than I am an actress, I swear.”

“Is that so?” He arches a brow. “Let’s see it. I’ll give you an exclusive.”

Frowning, I look him up and down again. “Please don’t hate me for asking this, but should I know who you are?”

“You wound me.” He touches his chest playfully for a second, then shrugs. “Or maybe you flatter me. I’m used to fawning people blowing smoke up my ass. ‘Willfully ignorant’ is a nice change of pace.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

Chuckling, he stoops down, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and withdraws a first aid kit. How he knew it was there is beyond me, but he did it so casually that it’s like he just expected the world to provide him what he needed and so it provided. I have to blink and knuckle my eyes until the amazement recedes.

“No,” he replies as he unclasps the kit and starts to pull out bandages, gauze, and disinfectant. “A compliment would be me telling you that you look fucking stunning in that dress. Calling you ignorant was merely an observation.”

I slap his chest with my good hand. “Ass!” I cry out.

“Now, it’s my turn to ask if that’s supposed to be a compliment.”

I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, scream, strip, or escape. It’s just that something about this man is too smooth to be real. He quips, but it’s not quippy; he rescues, but he’s no white knight; he reaches into empty cabinets and retrieves first aid kits that, logically, simply should not be there.

And yet they are.

My mouth opens and closes while I try and fail to process the gray-suited enigma who’s currently pouring hydrogen peroxide over my cut. For a professional wordsmith, I’m really coming up short on insightful things to say here.

He doesn’t seem to mind my goldfish impression, though. He just loops gauze around my finger, followed by a bandage. His touch is surprisingly tender.

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” I manage finally.

“No,” he agrees, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t.”

“Do I have to beg?”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“But would it work?”

“Only one way to replace out.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, the only sign that he might be smiling. That mouth remains a cruel slash of bourbon color nestled in the forest of dark beard surrounding it.

“Does this whole mysterious stranger act usually work for you?” I ask, aiming for sardonic but landing somewhere closer to breathless and giddy.

“I wouldn’t know.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s that dangerous glint again. “I’ve never tried it before.”

“Liar.”

“Absolutely.” He crowds me closer, still holding my hand. His hips kiss mine just as the small of my back kisses the sink behind me. “But you knew that already.”

I should back away. I really, really should. Everything about this man is a red flag. Charisma is a red flag. Cleverness is a red flag. Being that stupidly good-looking is like a whole flagpole’s worth of red flags.

But I’ve spent my whole life running from dangerous men, and something about that gets exhausting after a while.

Maybe that’s why I don’t move when he reaches up with his free hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Or maybe it’s just because the bathroom lights are hitting his eyes in a way that makes them look like Arctic ice at midnight.

“Your friend did a nice job with these braids,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down one plait. “Shame about the one coming loose.”

I blink. “How did you⁠—?”

“Your dress is safety-pinned in the back, which means it doesn’t fit, which suggests you borrowed it from someone. The braids are too complex to do yourself, and they’re actually even in the back, and I’m fairly certain you don’t have eyes in the back of your head. So I took an educated guess.”

“I… You… Are you showing off?”

“Maybe.” His hand settles at the nape of my neck. I can feel my own pulse hammering against his palm. “Is it working?”

My throat is dry. “That depends on what you’re trying to achieve.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and I realize I’ve never been more aware of another person’s lips in my entire life. “I thought that was obvious,” he says.

I laugh deliriously. “There is not one single, solitary thing about you that is obvious.”

“No? Then let me be clear.”

His face is so close to mine. It’s all I can see, all I can possibly bring myself to care about. I’m bathing in his scent as his lips draw closer and closer.

And closer still, and closer still, until⁠—

The bathroom door creaks.

We spring apart like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. My mysterious stranger’s face transforms instantly, that almost-softness hardening into marble as he turns toward the door.

He doesn’t have to say a word. The newcomer takes one look at us—me with my bandaged hand and flushed cheeks, him with his thundercloud scowl and general aura of Do not fuck with me—and backs right out again.

When the door clicks shut, we both exhale. But the tension doesn’t go away. Something lingers in the air between us, electric and unfinished and dangerous as all hell.

“You should go,” he warns, though it sounds like it costs him something to say it.

I gulp. “Should I?”

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Because if you don’t leave now, I’m going to kiss you. And once I start, I’m not going to want to stop.”

He’s right. I should go. I take a half-step toward the door, then pause and turn back. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”

His face is half-shadowed. A dark pit where his left eye should be. “You should be very, very careful before you say things like that to a man like me.”

I look at him. His head almost brushes the ceiling and his shoulders seem to span from wall to wall. I was spot-on the first time: he’s a bad idea made real. Mama would’ve whispered a scary fairy tale about him. He’s a beast, a golem, a dark prince who curses everything he touches.

I look at the door. It’s there. I could grab the knob—avoiding cutting my hand on it this time, preferably—and twist. I could open it. I could leave.

But whether it’s masochism or recklessness or just plain old stupidity, something compels me to turn back instead. To open my mouth, and to tell this demon…

“Or else what?”