Page 13 of Viper’s Reign

“I wouldn’t know, Ace.” He smirks. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever given it to. So you tell me—do you love it?”

My cheeks fill with heat and I nearly swallow my tongue before the waiter thankfully returns. He’s carrying a tray piled high with bite-sized pastries.

“Mini beef Wellingtons,” he says, carefully placing the plate in front of me.

Now, this is more my speed. My stomach growls as the rich, buttery aroma drifts up to my nostrils. I quickly glance at Dimitri, hoping he didn’t hear, but the amused smirk on his face has only grown.

“I trust you’ll like this one better.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” I mumble awkwardly. Under his intense scrutiny, I pick up a fork and knife and carefully cut into the pastry, my mouth already watering. I lift a forkful to my lips and take my first bite, my eyes slipping shut as the crisp crust gives way to a soft, meaty center.

Hmm. The sweet juices burst across my tongue, flooding it with a flavor so incredible I have to fight back the moan that presses at the back of my throat.

I’ve never eaten anything like this in my life.

When I open my eyes, Dimitri’s expression is darker, unreadable in a way that makes my belly clench. “I knew you would like it,” he says huskily.

“It’s delicious.” Delicious feels like a ridiculous understatement. “Thank you.”

His lips quirk up as he lifts another bite of his salmon. “You’re welcome, Plamyashka. So, tell me… is that red hair real?”

“Why does everybody always ask that?” I immediately blurt out, more instinctively than strategically. I don’t stop myself. This is probably the most natural I’ve sounded to him yet. “My eyebrows are so light they’re almost nonexistent, which should be the obvious tell, but—” I catch him glancing at my brows and furrowing his own.

“I have them filled in right now, so you probably can’t tell,” I add quickly. “But to answer your question—yes, my hair is real.”

“So, you must have some Irish or British in you.”

“I wouldn’t know. I was—” I stop myself in time. God, was I really about to tell him I was dropped off in front of a church as a three-year-old? That’s Grace Turner’s story, not Laura Holmer’s.

“You were…?” he prompts.

My brain scrambles for a plausible lie. “I think my grandparents were Irish, actually.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but he nods anyway. A moment later, the waiter comes to clear our starter plates and deliver the main course: roasted chicken breast with charred carrots and mushroom risotto. The smell alone is enough to make me forget myself.

“I hope this is acceptable?” Dimitri asks, nodding at the meal.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” I answer, already picking up my knife.

“Dima.” The man who’d told me earlier that I’d be sitting with Dimitri for dinner steps up beside him and whispers in his ear. Whatever he says, it changes Dimitri’s face—the warmth drains out of it, replaced by a coldness so sharp it sends a shiver down my spine. The charming CEO I’ve been talking to vanishes. Finally, I see his true face in full. The Viper.

He discreetly whispers a reply, and with a quick nod, the man disappears as quietly as he arrived.

“Sorry about that,” Dimitri says, clearing his throat. I watch as he blinks away the cold fire from his eyes, and that charming warmth melts back into his gaze, almost as if it never left. “A nosy reporter tried to slip onto the yacht. It’s handled.” He turns back to his plate and completes the transformation.

I consider pressing him for more, but think better of it. I’m supposed to get close, and that means staying in his good graces.

So, instead, I redirect. “He called you Dima. Is that your nickname?” I ask.

“Yes,” he answers shortly, then immediately turns it around. “How did you get into blogging?”

The spotlight swings back to me, but it doesn’t sound calculated. He has a smooth way of seeming genuinely interested while revealing almost nothing about himself. If I want to keep my cover intact until I complete my mission, though, I’ll need to use his cards against him.

I swallow a bite of chicken. “Is Dima short for Dimitri? It’s Russian, right? You have Russian roots.”

He lifts a single brow. “Yes. Dima is a diminutive of Dimitri. My family and a few friends call me that. Anything else you want to know?”

“Actually, yes,” I push on, my mind scrambling to keep the spotlight off of me. “The bio on your company’s website says you got into security after your father’s death. Why was that? Was he targeted by someone?” I regret the question as soon as it slips out of my mouth.