Page 24 of Flames

“Unkown,” she states simply. “But when the time comes and I need a favor, you’ll honor your promise.”

It’s not so much a request as it is a statement. Part of me wonders if she’s the type of Ježibaba who has already seen how this will play out. Witches are rarely to be trusted, but I’m running out of options.

“Fine,” I acquiesce, and a small smile creeps across the old woman’s face.

“If you want to find your mate, go to your office.”

I sit for a moment, my mouth hanging open as I try to process what she just said.

“My office?” I repeat as if this old bat has grown a second head and is eating Selyodka as it rains from the sky.

“Host a party tomorrow. Invite the brothers. Then wait in your office,” she repeats as if I hadn’t already thought of just asking Mikhael to come in, but there’s no way he’d bring his hostage to the Bratva headquarters, not right under the Pakhan’s nose.

“That’s your plan?!” I place my fingers on the bridge of my nose in annoyance.

Fucking witches.

“Gods only see the domain they rule, Svarozhits. And beasts only see their prey,” she tells me as I try to contain the urge to roast her like a chicken. “Witches see the now and the then. Never underestimate a woman and her will, zhar-ptitsa.”

She takes a step back, her form beginning to fray around the edges as she starts her departure.

“A mate is only as good as their partner,” she tells me cryptically as she disappears, leaving me standing alone in an alley simmering with anger and trying to process her truly terrible advice.

Great, guess I’m hosting a fucking party.

FOURTEEN

MARISA

Ipull at the neckline of this unreasonably cut dress for the nine millionth time this evening. Part of me wonders if Felicity just has really horrible taste in clothing or if she put me in this gold monstrosity as some extra form of punishment. The sweeping silk fabric is a warm rich bronze color that is not complementary to my skin tone. The fabric is thin and unforgiving, showing off every single roll and ripple in my flesh. And the neckline, oh this fucking neckline—a deep sweeping cascade of too much silk which hangs from my shoulders and pools low on my chest. One wrong move and the party hats are gonna be popping out tonight. The shoes are bejeweled sky-high stilettos that feel as though they might snap under my weight with every single step.

Felicity might be a very specific type of evil genius.

“Such a shame your lovely wife couldn’t join us tonight, Mikhael,” I snark to the man on my left before taking another sip of champagne.

“Oh, I would never bring my wife here, little thief,” he replies, his dark eyes never leaving the crowd around us. He’s looking for something… or someone. “This is a den of wolves. And she,” his gaze flashes to me, giving me a pointed look, “She is worth keeping safe.”

I roll my eyes, but internally, the bubbles sour in my stomach. Unease rolls through me. The street kid in me wants to kick these heels off and run. Sometimes survival means running from the monsters that you know you can’t defeat. But unfortunately, I seem to have found myself in a situation I can’t run from. Anxiety spills from my pores.

“Who are you looking for?” I ask Mikhael, desperate to change the subject.

“The Pakhan,” he replies as he continues to scan the crowd.

I stare out at the men and women littering the lavish ballroom. Two days ago, Mikhael had received an invite from the head of The Organizatsiya himself, inviting Mikhael to a party to celebrate their recent success in some, probably wildly illegal, part of their business. My captors were overjoyed to have the opportunity to put my thievery skills to the test. I was less overjoyed at the prospect, but a captive’s gotta do what they have to do, right? All of the people here look posh, sophisticated, polished. But the quick flashes of steel tucked against sides, and black Cyrillic script littering skin not covered by clothing tells the truth of who these people are and the very dangerous position I’m currently in.

“Want to tell me what he looks like so I can help you search?” I ask Mikhael, desperate to do anything but just stand here.

“No.”

Cool.

“So what’s the plan then,” I persist. Maybe if I annoy him endlessly he’ll just let me go… or he’ll shoot me. I’m hoping for the former. “You play ‘I Spy the Mafia Boss’ while I stand here looking pretty?”

He shoots me a glare. “If your job is to look pretty, then you’re making a barely passable attempt,” he snarks as he takes a swig of his vodka.

Dick.

“Mikhael,” a voice calls from behind us. The tone is snide and smooth. It reminds me of something serpentine. “I remember your wife looking quite different. Finally caved and bought a mistress?”