From Russia With Fangs Read online

  Konstantin took a step closer to Nikolai and held out his hand. “Mr. Sudenko.”

  Nik cleared his throat awkwardly. “Call me Nik,” he finally said, taking Konstantin’s hand and shaking it.

  “I’ll see you out,” Galina interrupted, grabbing Konstantin’s arm and dragging him back toward the front door.

  “He’s cute,” Franny drawled. “All that dark hair and the bedroom eyes. Don’t you think he was cuuute?”

  Nik plucked a carton from the counter and began gnawing at the contents, not bothering to taste what he was putting in his mouth. Galina came bounding back into the kitchen, with a “cat who stole the whole damn dairy section” smile on her face.

  “He likes you!” she shouted at Nik, who was busy cleaning the meat from Chinese spareribs.

  “What are you talking about?” Irina asked, dusting Dorito crumbs from her T-shirt. She could not believe she’d let someone from Lupesco’s camp see her in this state.

  Galina was too busy grabbing Nikolai and giving him a huge hug to notice her distress. “Konstantin.” She grinned up at her brother. “He totally has the hots for Nik!”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Franny asked, popping a sweet-n-sour shrimp into her mouth, dodging when Galina tried to swipe the container out of her hand.

  Nik was staring at Galina, a rib hanging forgotten from his fingers. She plucked it out of his slack grip and cleaned it of meat in one smooth motion. “Oh, these are really good.” She turned back to Franny. “I smelled it on him.”

  Nik stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin and licking the barbeque sauce from his fingers. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” He dropped the napkin into an empty carton and grabbed his jacket from the table.

  Galina shared a confused look with Irina, then went after their brother.

  “What was that about?” Franny asked.

  Irina stared after her siblings, her mouth pinched in an unhappy expression. How could she explain something like this to Franny? Franny, whose life was so normal and conventional, and who had already accepted so much weirdness in her friendship with Irina. It was so difficult to explain to other humans, the strange cultural mix of growing up in a strict Russian-organized crime-werewolf household. Irina had known about her brother’s orientation since they were kids, but he’d never put it into words. It was too dangerous for him even to consider it.

  Homosexuality was a damning sin in their world. For Papa to admit that his son was gay would have meant perceived weakness on his part, leaving him open to attack from other families. So the Sudenkos operated on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Both of Nik’s sisters mourned the loss of the life Nik could have had, living in the open, loving whomever he chose. They loved Nik, every part of him. It sucked, but they told themselves to accept his safety over his happiness.

  Nik had considerate, discreet partners in most of the cities he visited on business for Papa—Chicago, New York, Los Angeles; but never Seattle. He never felt comfortable enough to seek any kind of relationship close to home. And that broke Irina’s heart for him. She may have drawn a serious short straw in terms of her love life, but at least she didn’t have to hide who she was.

  “Nik’s not ready to—he can’t risk seeing someone in our world. He would expose himself to dangers.” Irina shuddered. “It just wouldn’t be worth it.”

  When Galina returned to the kitchen, she threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. “Our brother is a stubborn horse’s ass…wolf’s ass…mule.”

  Franny emptied the last of the shrimp into her mouth. “Okay, now you’re just naming random animals.”

  With the public rituals of mourning Sergei complete, Irina was entering the more private period for any wolf widow. Traditionally, she would be housebound for one month with only her immediate family allowed to see her. This period was to allow for the possibility of a widow being left with child—she would need plenty of rest and nurturing to recover from the shock of her loss and ensure a healthy pregnancy. Irina certainly wouldn’t have to worry about that, but she was glad to have some time to herself to process the chaos that had become her life. And maybe get the reporters off of her front lawn.

  Irina’s only regret was that she was going to miss the annual Seattle Chocolate Salon, an expo featuring the Northwest’s foremost artisan chocolatiers. Or as Galina put it, “choco-balls to the walls.” The sisters attended every spring, and Irina was going to be stuck in her house, chocolate-less. Galina promised that she would send Irina a box so full of truffles that she would emerge from her seclusion unable to button her pants.

  Andrey Lupesco’s bouquet took up most of her foyer, crowding out her key basket on her entryway table. It was tasteful and beautiful and, strangely enough, contained forty-nine lilies, flouting the Russian tradition of sending even numbered floral arrangements to mourners. What could he mean, sending her what could be considered a celebratory or even flirtatious bouquet on the day of her husband’s funeral? She wondered what sort of conversations her father could be having with Mr. Lupesco to encourage such a gesture. What was going on in Papa’s head?

  Irina could only imagine what her mother-in-law would say about what Irina suspected were match-making endeavors on Papa’s part. Mama Anya had already apologized—barely—to Irina’s father for the outburst at the funeral. She begrudgingly admitted that since the house had been a wedding gift from Irina’s maternal line, the Volkovs had no right to take it. But Irina could tell from the look in Anya’s muddy hazel eyes that her mother-in-law was not going to let this go. Her usual tactic, when she knew she’d pushed Sergei too far on a subject was to cry and beg for forgiveness for being such a bad mother, and then wait a few months to pounce on the exact same topic. Irina didn’t see any reason for her change now.

  After her seclusion, Irina would be allowed to come and go as she normally would, but for three months, she was required to wear a black silk armband with a moon symbol embroidered on it by Mama Yaga herself. She was fortunate that her marriage to Sergei had been brief. Widows whose marriages had run ten years or more were expected to the wear the band for a year, and weren’t allowed to consider remarriage or even dating for that long. While Irina wasn’t ready to hop back on that particular horse, she was glad that Sergei wouldn’t have such a long hold on her life.

  Something about Sergei’s death was bothering her, and not just in the “husband murdered before your very eyes” way. On a business level, his shooting didn’t make any sense. Eliminating Sergei didn’t weaken the Sudenko family position. Her papa had known exactly what Sergei was and had known better than to give him more than the simplest errands. Then again, knowing Sergei, it was possible that, completing even those easy tasks, he’d managed to piss someone off badly enough to inspire a blood vendetta. Hell, he could piss someone off that badly when he was parallel parking.

  Unless, she was the target.

  Though it gave her a few seconds’ pause, Irina shook off the very idea. The only people who would have had an axe to grind with her were that idiot Tatiana and others in that endless parade of Sergei’s extracurricular skanks. And they were far more likely to try to shave off her eyebrows or pour wine down her dress than to do something as energetic as trying to kill her.

  Irina and Galina had discussed these concerns at length while they recovered from Franny’s herbal refreshment. They knew that if they brought these concerns to Papa, they would be patted on the head and told not to worry themselves with such serious matters. In Galina’s case, Papa would probably offer her extra pocket money to buy herself something pretty.

  Still, Irina planned to make the most of her time out of the spotlight. She would rest. She would run on her treadmill. She would eat exactly what she wanted, without worrying about Sergei’s unpredictable schedule, or his even less predictable preferences. She’d already started purging the house of everything even remotely attached to Sergei. His clothes, the stacks of “men’s magazines” he thought she didn’t know about, his booze. In fact
, she might even toss out his big stupid TV he’d insisted on making a focal point of their living room. Goodwill would be getting a huge donation in Sergei’s name.

  She wasn’t a cruel woman. The jewelry, the money clips and the framed photos (of himself) that Sergei kept sprinkled around the house, she would send to Mama Anya. At least, she wouldn’t have to worry about sending childhood mementos. Mama Anya had held onto them like holy relics when she and Sergei married, refusing to part with so much as a Little League trophy.

  Irina sat at her kitchen table, in a red cardigan and well-worn jeans she’d no longer have to hide at the back of her closet. Galina, helpful soul that she was, had already supplied her with dozens of catalogues to order new furniture, new linens, new knickknacks for the house. Irina would finally have a home that reflected her personality, her comforts, her wishes. She hummed lightly to herself as she put Post-it notes on items that caught her interest. Blue for “A definite maybe,” yellow for “If the blue ones fall through,” and pink for “Oh, hell no, but hang onto it to amuse Franny and Galya.”

  Irina planned to give her wardrobe the same overhaul, but she wanted the pleasure of shopping with Franny and Galina for replacements. She wanted to shop like a normal woman, instead of just rushing through the store and grabbing the first red item in her size. She wanted to linger over her choices while the department store staff brought her champagne, to talk with her friends about color and cut and fabric. She wanted to buy lingerie, real ensembles, in a rainbow of colors, from garters to bustiers, because she was a woman, damn it, not some frigid failure of a wife—

  “Stop,” she breathed, gripping the edge of the kitchen table. “Get the fuck out of my head.”

  Irina closed her eyes and counted to ten, forcing her hands to relax and then her arms, and her back, all the way down to her toes. She forced herself to think of something pleasant, of the rare sunny skies reflecting off of Elliott Bay, of the hot, metallic scent of her workroom at the shop. Without warning, ice blue eyes and a wide, full mouth popped into her head, the expression on his face that moment right before Viktor made her come.

  Irina’s eyes flew open, and before she could process that particular vision, a loud knock came at her front door. Even as she stood, her hands flew to smooth her sweater over her hips, to straighten her hair. She wound her way through the packing boxes in the living room, reveling in how much Sergei would have detested the mess in “his house.”

  She didn’t bother with the peephole. Papa had posted two guards at her driveway in a black sedan since the funeral. It was probably more flowers, Irina thought with dread, and just when she’d finished all the thank you notes. But when she pulled the door open, she wasn’t greeted by another lily floatation device, but the very face that had just occupied her thoughts.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Viktor cleared his throat and handed her a warm insulated travel bag. “Your father wants a detail stationed at your house until he finds Sergei’s shooter. Three guys, twelve-hour shifts, round the clock, with two more in a car out front. He thought you might be comfortable with me heading it up. He’s sending the others this afternoon.”

  “I’m in seclusion!” Irina protested, a heavy sensation settling into her belly. She’d relished the idea of living in her house alone, of having some peace and quiet. That wouldn’t be possible with a wolf pack camping out in her living room. “I’m only supposed to have members of my immediate family in the house!”

  “Well, you’re human, so the rules can be flexed a little, especially when a man like your father is doing the flexing,” Viktor said. He nodded toward the thermal carry bag. “And that’s from Magda, she said you used to love her pierogi.”

  Irina smiled briefly at the mention of their beloved housekeeper, who was one of the few stable female influences in Irina and Galya’s lives. Without being invited, Viktor stepped into the house and walked to the stairs. “I’m just going to go upstairs to check on the alarm system. The console is in the master bedroom, right?”

  Curse him, he knew exactly where to go because he’d carried her up to her bedroom before.

  “Uh, excuse me, don’t I get a vote in this?” Irina demanded, catching his arm before he made the third step. “What if I don’t want my own personal goon squad moving into my house? What if I would like a little privacy or time to recover from seeing my husband gunned down in front of my eyes? And won’t your staying here with me be a little awkward considering…you know?”

  Viktor looked down at her, his eyes impassive. Irina snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned. His expression was completely blank. What happened between them hadn’t meant anything to him. She took a step back down the stairs, the wall of separation rising between the two of them something almost tangible.

  Viktor gave a non-committal shrug, though he didn’t look her in the eye. “It doesn’t have to be. We can get through this with a little dignity if we try. What happened at the funeral was insanity and it can’t happen again,” he said, shaking his head. “I lost control. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I don’t have the right—”

  “I like to think that I have the right to decide who touches me,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. She shivered at his glacial, detached tone, so different from the hot, panting breaths that had feathered across her cheeks as he had driven her body into a frenzy.

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  Her cheeks burned, but damn it, he was right. In her position, she didn’t have the authority to choose her own partners for ping-pong, much less sex. Werewolves took bloodlines, pack classifications like “Alpha” and “Beta” and “Omega” very seriously. It was why Galina, a rare purebred Alpha female, was such a treasure. It was why marriages were planned so carefully, to make sure the right genes and social connections were fostered. And even if Irina shared no genetic link to the Sudenkos, her name held considerable social currency and her father’s contemporaries would not tolerate her wasting it on an unknown Beta foot soldier.

  Irina was trapped. Sure, her cage was lined with silk and diamonds, but it was still a cage. And escape, however temporary, was not only impossible, but could only end in death. Her father was getting older. He couldn’t stand the idea of appearing weak, vulnerable to takeover and attack from other families, even if it was a scandal as simple as his daughter hooking up with the help.

  He needed to appear to be in absolute control, damn the price of that appearance. So she would try to do her time in seclusion with a little dignity. She backed down another step.

  “Maybe you should ask him to assign someone else to my detail?” she said carefully, her voice growing more detached with every word. She could the feel the ice queen mask slipping back into place, the cool, aloof bitch who couldn’t care less about the man in front of her. It was her one superpower in a family full of supernatural creatures—self-preservation.

  Viktor shook his head. “I don’t know how I can without making him suspicious. You seemed to feel safe with me after Sergei’s shooting. Your father’s worried about you and he’s going to wonder why one of his most trusted men is refusing a post at your side.”

  Irina nodded mechanically, turning her back on Viktor. “My father doesn’t trust anyone that much.”

  Viktor stared after her as she made her way back into the kitchen. She closed the catalogues on the table and shoved them into a storage chest under the window bench. The joy of sifting through them had been sucked right out of her.

  “I’m turning the alarm on,” he called.

  She didn’t respond, instead going to the stove and putting together the makings for chamomile tea. Her hands shook as she opened the tea canister. Damn it. She set the canister aside and leaned her head against the cool metal of her range hood. She could do this. She could forget the “incident” at the funeral and go back to treating Viktor like she’d treat any man in her father’s employ—like a useful piece of furniture…that could kill people…and bring he
r to orgasm in roughly ninety seconds.

  Damn it.

  She could do this. But not with witnesses. If she was going to have Viktor in her house, she couldn’t have any of Papa’s other gun-toting meatheads tromping around her house, putting her on edge and increasing the likelihood that she would be seen staring at Viktor’s ass. There would be no talking Papa out of a security detail. When it came to his girls’ safety, the man was a tyrant. Viktor would have to do, regardless of the awkward semi-sexual encounter. The trick would be convincing Ilya, dear Papa, that it was his idea to let Viktor watch over her alone.

  She plucked her cell phone from the table and walked down the hall to Sergei’s office. She closed the door behind her and was caught off guard by the heavy emotional tide that washed through her. With its dark paneling, black leather furniture and dangerously sharp chrome tables, Sergei had tried to create a Miami-Vice-villain-meets-Donald-Trump look to his office. She’d left this room for last, though she wasn’t sure why. Sergei really hadn’t spent much time in here, except for the last few weeks of his life. He barely worked out in the “field,” much less at home, but in those last weeks, he’d holed up in this room and spent hours on the phone. She’d assumed he was face-deep in some new “distraction.” But considering the shooting, was it possible he was caught up in something more serious?

  Irina rubbed her hands over her arms, alarmed at how chilled she was, despite her thick blue sweater. Surrounded by the stench of his cigars, his photos, and the magazines, she felt Sergei’s presence more here than in any other part of the house. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the commanding, petulant ring of his voice as he called her frigid, a failure, a stupid, useless cow. She could feel the heavy crush of his hands bruising her arms. She could feel his hot, vodka-soaked breath against her neck as he—

  She forced her eyes to snap open.