Win

I don’t know how many seconds pass as I consider the woman before me. She began this conversation by telling me she had a score to settle.

But I struggle to trust her words. My father was a cheating, selfish, abusive bastard and I wouldn’t have been able to kill him.

“My given name is Winston, but my family calls me, Win.”

Her brows notch. “Fitting.”

I don’t respond. I’m not looking for an opinion, only a deepening of this conversation. All the cards are mine and if Katarina wants to change the circumstances, she’s going to have to do more than offer some flimsy assertion.

“I don’t know about that, but I do make it my business to end up in the winner’s circle.”

Katarina studies me as she cocks her head to the side. “I’m certain you do.”

“And your certainty matters because?”

She huffs out the smallest breath. I’ve been told I’m abrasive. I am.

I’ve been told by most women that my edges are…cutting. They are.

But Katarina doesn’t look offended. She doesn’t look hurt. Instead, her eyes do the smallest roll up, like she finds this part of our conversation tiresome. “I’ve grown up surrounded by criminals, politicians, heads of state, men afflicted with every sort of depravity you can imagine, and I can always spot a winner. Not a winner today, not even the winner of the year. I can see the man who has the control, the intelligence, the willpower to win.”

“I’m listening.”

She waves her hand. “My father almost has it all, but not quite.”

This is getting interesting. “What does he lack?”

She shakes her head, her tongue clucking softly against the back of her teeth.

Damn. The woman has just claimed her first advantage. I no longer hold them all. “And why should I believe that you would help me?”

It’s a valid question and this is clearly a negotiation.

Which, in and of itself, is impressive.

Katarina has remained cool, calm, and collected in the face of my hard edges and against the odds stacked in my favor. Men much more powerful than her crumble in my presence.

“I know that your brothers told you about the night Dimitri wrestled us from our father’s grip. How my father held a gun to my sister’s head?”

There is that. And it probably should be enough information. But I’m not a man who leaves anything to chance. And I’m not afraid to offend. “I’ll need more than that.”

“You’ll have to take my word⁠—”

“No.” It comes out harsh and jagged. But my patience is wearing thin. This is the moment most women shrink. Men too. I’m direct. Aggressive.

I don’t need Katarina, even if she does hold a few scraps of valuable knowledge. If she wants to be something other than a prisoner, this is her parole hearing, and she is beholden to prove her worth to me.

I see her wince, her shoulders curling the slightest bit.

She starts to answer, stops, then tries again, her hands splaying out, “Try to understand,” she begins, spreading her hands wide. The back of her hand catches my phone, knocking it off the surface. It bounces on the carpet, stopping in the aisle.

She stares at me for a moment, and I note the indecision flickering in her eyes.

Then, she unbuckles her seatbelt, standing in the space between the couch, on the other side of the aisle, and my captain’s chair.

Turning, she presents her back to me.

I have the briefest moment to appreciate the lush curve of her ass, before her arms cross and she bends down to grab the phone. The action lifts the tank top she wears the fabric riding up her back.

The sight of her exposed skin makes me suck in a jagged breath.

Because while her arms and face are flawless, her back is covered in scars. She goes to pull down the fabric, but I grab her hand stopping her, as I assess the marks.

Whip marks, puncture wounds. I push the fabric higher, to her bra line as I take in the totality of the damage. I hear her breath catch, her hand trembling under mine. “Who did this to you?” I lift a hand, my thumb skimming over a jagged scar near her spine. “Katarina.”

She jumps at my touch and the sound of her name. “He gave me every one of these. I was his favorite torture victim,” she whispers into the space between us.

“I…” I’m at a loss for words.

With my other hand I grasp her waist, running my palm over one of the whip marks. She holds still, her body humming with tension.

“Don’t doubt my motives,” she murmurs. “Or my commitment to the task.”

I don’t know why I’m touching her. She’s a pawn, meant to be sacrificed. Except…

No woman should ever be treated with such…cruelty. I squeeze her waist. “I understand, but I promise you, I will make him pay.”

She steps away, sliding out of my hands as she pulls her shirt back in place. Sitting, she buckles her seatbelt like what she just showed me isn’t that unusual. “So you say.”

I hear the landing gear drop, and I sit back in my chair, my eyes locked on Katarina. “What’s your father’s weakness?”

“How about we build a bit of trust first?” Her arms cross over her chest. “I’ve shown you my scars. What’s your reason? Why do you want revenge?”

The plane touches down, skidding along the tarmac as I consider the harm in telling her the truth. “He murdered my fiancée.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “But why?”

My jaw hardens. I don’t talk about my past or the mistakes I’ve made with anyone. Not even my family.

I’ve told her enough for her to understand, more is not required.

The plane comes to a stop, the door opening.

Andrew emerges, collecting my bags and carrying them out. Katarina unclips her belt and starts for the bedroom. “Andrew will take care of your suitcase.”

She shakes her head. “I’d rather do it myself.”

I watch her disappear, noting that whatever is in the suitcase is valuable to her. Did I say that I didn’t wish to interact with Katarina while she stayed at Grandmont? At least for tonight, I’m breaking that rule.

If she’s out of her room and under my watchful eye, it will give me the chance I need to see what she’s hiding in that suitcase.

I rise just as Katarina comes out with her rollie. Silently I reach out for her to give me the case.

“I don’t need your help,” she says as she stops in front of me.

I grab the handle from her hand, sliding it back in its tracks and pick up the suitcase like a man.

It’s heavier than expected.

She’s definitely got something of interest in this bag. “After you.” I gesture for her to pass.

She softly snorts. “Gentleman do not abscond with a lady’s bag.”

“Yes, they do,” I answer as she passes by me. I catch her scent and inhale. “Just like they drive the car, walk on the outside of the street, and pay for dinner.”

She looks back over her shoulder at me, and my body grows granite hard. Forget fucking her with her back to the mirror. I definitely want her chest pressed against the glass, her face looking at mine over her shoulder.

That would mean looking at her scars. They don’t diminish the fantasy. But they do weaken my resolve and I cannot have that.

So I let her walk on and don’t put a hand at her back as she makes her way out of the plane, and down the stairs.

A limousine waits just beyond, and I frown. I don’t travel in limos. Those are for bachelorette parties and people who don’t know any better.

The rear door pops open and Ken Bradford appears, his plastic smile in place.

If I don’t do limos, I really don’t do surprise visits. Not even from family, but especially not from consultants.

I hand Katarina’s suitcase to Andrew so he can load it into the trunk and then stop in front of Ken giving him a healthy glare.

Wisely, he takes a half step back. “Y-y-your Grace.”

“Bradford.” My scowl deepens.

He searches the tarmac like the reason for my displeasure might appear. Then, he seems to land on it. “Apologies for the unexpected…”

“Intrusion?”

Behind me, Katarina gives another soft snort.

Does she not approve of my rough treatment or is she finding this amusing? Then again, why am I even asking myself these questions?

Ken’s eyes widen. “My apologies. I had pressing news, and I thought⁠—”

“Next time, don’t think. Email.” I take Katarina’s hand, gently maneuvering her in front of me before I help her into the limo.

“Who is that?” Ken asks, a bit breathless.

“None of your concern,” I growl back. Katarina and Ken should not know one another. They are from two completely disparate parts of my life. But it’s too late now.

“It’s going to be a conflict if women you’re interested in marrying meet your Russian mistress.”

“As if,” Katarina calls from in the car. She shifts her hand, and the ring on her finger, the one my brother gave her, sparkles in the limo light.

I clear my throat, admiring the tactic.

“Kat is a dear family friend.” I step closer to Ken because this is the second time this evening he’s pressing where he doesn’t belong, and I’m a breath away from firing him.

“Apologies,” he murmurs taking another step back so that he bumps the open door. “But I’ve received two more acceptances for tomorrow night’s event, and I thought to give you the details on the two perspective ladies.”

I slide into the car, the only concession Ken will get from me, and take a seat next to Katarina.

I hate riding sideways, but I don’t think it wise to place Ken next to my little Russian hellcat.

Ken climbs in too, giving an audible sigh as the door closes.

“Lady Sarah Wincester, daughter of the Baron of⁠—”

I hold up my hand, silencing him. I don’t want to hear his verbal diarrhea. “Give me the folders.”

He hands them over, frowning. “Don’t you want⁠—”

“No.”

Katarina leans over my lap, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s like that with me too.”

Ken cracks the smallest smirk, even as his eyes flit over the intimacy of our position. Her elbow comes to my knee, speaking of an intimacy we do not share. Is she taunting me or him?

I glare at her, my fiercest, but unlike Ken, she doesn’t bat an eye. In fact, she gives me an angelic smile in return.

“I for one would adore hearing about Lady Sarah Wincester,” she adds, her smile growing broader. “How are her tea-serving skills?”

“Excellent,” Ken replies quickly, sounding truly enthusiastic. “And her bloodlines are impeccable.”

“Impeccable bloodlines?” Katarina repeats. “Is there a picture?”

“Of her bloodlines?” Ken looks perplexed. “Of course.”

“Sexy,” Katarina coughs into her hand, giving me a side eye. I only deepen my scowl in return.

Ken is scowling now too, his eyes narrowing on Katarina. It’s official. She’s teasing us both.

She wiggles her eyebrows, like this is the most amusing conversation she’s ever heard. At least everyone has ceased speaking.

I open the folder to find that Lady Sarah Wincester’s family heritage is, in fact, the first document.

I flip to the second.

There I find her studio photograph. I close the file, shuffling it to the bottom.

Katarina sits back in her seat. “I’d love to see her family tree.”

“No.”

“Will…” Ken pauses, “Kat be joining the event tomorrow evening?”

“No.”

But at the exact same moment, Katarina answers, “Yes.”

I’ve already tried scowling to little effect. So, I give a loud rumble of dissent. “This is not an event for family or friends.”

“What kind of event is it, exactly, that women you wish to marry will be assembled?”

She doesn’t need to know any of this, and if Ken hadn’t stepped out of bounds… “None of⁠—”

But Ken cuts me off, his hard stare on Katarina. “His Grace is the most eligible bachelor in all of England. Maybe the world.”

“So they will line up and…”

“Present themselves.”

Are they seriously talking about me like I’m not even here?

“Enough.” My voice reverberates with enough force that Ken jumps back. Katarina does not.

In fact, humor dances in her eyes. “Do they know that despite your wealth and looks, you’re actually an ogre? And not the heart-of-gold kind like Shrek.”

My mouth gapes open. Is she actually talking to me this way? No one, and I mean no one, speaks to me like this. Well. Maybe my brothers. But not that often.

But Ken mumbles under his breath. “Oh, they know.”

Katarina quirks one single brow, before she turns back to me. “If I can come, I’ll tell you what you wish to know.”

That makes my mouth snap shut. It only takes a half second and I’ve decided. “Ken. Kat is going to need a dress.”

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