Kingmakers, Graduation

3. Sabrina

3

SAbrINA

F or once the hype is justified. The food is fantastic at Coco, and Adrik is just as impressive as everyone says.

I keep looking for a hole in his persona—something he thinks he knows that I know he’s wrong about. Some cringey joke. Some moment where I puncture his ego, and like every other man I’ve ever met, he can’t handle it and his temper flares. That’s what I expect to happen, because that’s what’s always happened when I’ve tried to date men.

They hate when you disagree with them, especially when you’re right.

They hate when you don’t fawn over them.

And most of all, they hate when you’re different than the picture of you they created in their mind.

That happens to me most of all .

Men look at me and they see liquid sex poured into the body of their dreams. They want me so bad that they can’t possibly imagine that what’s inside that package might not appeal to them quite as much as the exterior.

They say I’m everything they ever wanted—then they want to change everything about me.

How I dress, how I talk, what I like, how I behave …

And that’s before the jealousy kicks in.

The more they want you, the less they can stand for anyone else to look at you.

Our waiter is trying to behave himself, but even he can’t resist a furtive glance down the front of my shirt as he drops off the entrées.

I check to see if Adrik noticed.

Adrik leans back in his chair, his wineglass balancing lightly between his middle and ring fingers.

His expression is as relaxed as ever, no hint of irritation drawing those thick black brows together.

The moment the waiter leaves, he says, “Has anyone ever been able to resist you?”

I smile. “Not yet.”

Adrik pours a little more Vietti into my glass, keeping his eyes locked on mine, no need to watch what he’s doing. “Then I guess I’m just like everyone else.”

Of all the things I expected from Adrik Petrov, self-deprecation wasn’t one of them .

He throws me off balance. Those ice-chip eyes narrowed in on me, that rough growl, but the words themselves flirtatious and complimentary—the man has layers to him.

He sparks my curiosity. Also my impulse for mischief.

I ignore the freshly-filled wineglass, wanting to keep my senses sharp. I’ve got plans for about thirty minutes from now. I can’t get tipsy.

Adrik picks up his steak knife, tendons standing out on his bare forearm, the bicep above as round as a softball. His hands are large, the fingers gripping the handle thick and square-tipped.

“Have you ever been to Russia?” he asks me.

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

I take my time cutting into the perfectly-grilled filet, so I can measure how serious an invitation he’s offering.

I thought Adrik was here for sex.

But he’s already put more effort into the hunt than I expected. He didn’t get that bike in Croatia—he rode it here, or shipped it. He knew it would impress me. He knows how I feel about anything on wheels.

And not because I told him. He’s done his research.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Adrik wants something. Not just my body—something else.

I look up at him.

He’s waiting and watching, his own steak untouched .

“What’s Moscow like?” I ask him.

“Well … you know when a thousand kinds of people poured into America, and it was chaotic and lawless, and fortunes could be made and lost in a day?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what it’s like. It’s the wild, wild East.”

I take a bite of the filet, licking the juice from my lips.

“That sounds … intriguing.”

Adrik grins back at me, his teeth white and strong. He has a wicked smile and a stare that makes you feel naked. There’s nothing sweet about him, nothing gentle. I could see him in a fur coat and boots in a Siberian castle, snow howling all around …

He was made for a harsher climate than this.

The leather jacket slung over the back of his chair is heavy and battered.

The body it revealed is tight, sleek, and flawlessly maintained. I admire when a man takes care of himself. I can tell a lot about Adrik from the way he treats his body and his bike.

He’s less tattooed than the average Bratva. Out of school for several years, I would have expected his arms and hands to already bear record of his accomplishments. One of the only tattoos I can see is a large patch on his right arm: the head of a black wolf, in wood-cut style. I’ve heard all his Wolfpack wear the brand, more reminiscent of a military group than Bratva.

Still, I suspect that if I could see Adrik without his shirt on, I’d find his shoulders stamped with the traditional stars of his organization .

I saw what Adrik was willing to do to save his uncle. He’s loyal.

There’s much to admire in Adrik Petrov. He’s calculated, intelligent. He doesn’t fail to notice things, he doesn’t guess wrong. That’s how you become a legend: consistency.

I’m almost intimidated.

And I’m sure as fuck attracted to him.

Every time he shifts in his seat, I catch a waft of his cologne, mixed with his own feral scent. It makes my stomach clench up in a knot.

I’ve never felt this kind of arousal toward a man.

Men are inherently flawed. They have so many weaknesses—overcome by ruthlessness and brute power.

There are exceptions. My father is an exception. My brother, my cousins. You’d think with all these good examples, I’d have a positive view of men. But I’m talking about the mass of men, the balance of them. It’s a simple equation: men have the power. If men were good, the world would be good.

“What’s running around in that head?” Adrik asks me.

He’s examining me like one of those puzzles you have to turn over and over to find the right angle of attack.

“I was wondering if you wanted dessert.”

“I don’t eat sweets.”

“I bet you don’t.”

Adrik gives a shrug of his shoulders, no doubt intended to shift the slabs of muscle beneath his tight black t-shirt.

“I don’t want to overeat. In case I need to exert myself later. ”

Unlike the waiter, his eyes stay fixed on mine—no crude up and down over my body. But the hunger is all over his face. He wants me.

I’ll admit—I’m tempted too.

Adrik and that Ducati sitting outside have a lot in common. Both exotic and powerful, with enough octane to blast me into space. A ride like no other.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, no longer interested in my steak.

Like Adrik, I don’t want anything weighing me down.

I stand up from the table, the cool ocean breeze lifting the hem of my skirt, dancing it around my thighs.

This time, Adrik can’t help looking.

While he’s distracted, I take a quick glance over the outline of his jeans. I see plenty to catch my interest, but not what I’m looking for.

“It’s getting cold,” I say.

The sun has long since sunk below the ocean, plunging Old Town into a deep, purplish twilight. The lamps along the sea wall glow like a hundred golden globes strung on a long, thin wire.

Adrik lifts his jacket off the back of his chair, throwing it over my shoulders. Its weight surprises me. I’m enveloped in the rich, wild scent of him, mingled with gasoline fumes from his bike. Like the gasoline, Adrik’s aroma carries a wicked edge: head-spinning, heart-racing, incendiary.

I slip my hands in the pockets of his jacket, searching.

My fingertips find only air .

“Where are we headed now?” I ask Adrik.

“Culture Club. Have you been there?”

I nod.

Before I boarded the ship to Kingmakers, I spent my last night in Dubrovnik dancing at Culture Club until four in the morning.

Adrik throws down cash on the table, not waiting for our server to return.

I stride ahead of him, down the stairs, out to the courtyard where the strings of lights suspended over the cobblestones glitter off the windshields of the many expensive cars parked by the valets, and the long berth of bikes and mopeds capped by the Ducati that outshines them all.

Dangling from the ignition, I spy what I was looking for.

Motherfucker left the keys in it. Fucking tempting someone to try to handle this bike.

I hear Adrik’s heavy tread behind me.

Turning, I say, “You just leave the keys?”

Adrik smirks. “I’d like to see someone try to steal that bike.”

He’s not wrong.

There’s a saying for the young bucks that think they’re gonna hop on the biggest engine they can find: too much bike .

You have to practice on the old mare before you can ride the bronco.

If this particular bronco bucks you off, you’ll be nothing but a smear on the pavement .

I saunter over to the bike, running my fingertip lightly down the frame.

Adrik watches me, hands in his pockets, chin upraised.

I throw him a flirtatious look. “You’re not worried someone’s gonna see this gorgeous, gleaming piece of machinery glowing in the moonlight, and feel an irresistible urge to swing her leg over the seat?”

I do exactly that, straddling the plush leather of the bike, skirt riding all the way up on my thighs.

Tossing my hair back over my shoulder, I settle my hips in place on the seat, leaning forward, arching my back, really letting him see how much I’m enjoying mounting this monster.

Adrik knows exactly what I’m doing. He can’t keep the grin off his face. He loves that I’m shameless.

“You like the way that feels?” he growls.

“Almost,” I say, leaning forward and twisting the keys.

The engine roars to life, instantly awake, instantly warming.

“Ahhh,” I sigh. “Much better.”

The vibration drums through my bones. I press against it until every cell in my body thrums at the same frequency. I’m perfectly in tune, a note suspended in the air.

I sit up, silhouetted against the sky. Fully aware of how stunning I look to Adrik in this moment—a prize he’ll do anything to obtain.

I twist the throttle, revving the engine. Smiling at him over my shoulder .

He starts to grin back, so happy he could die.

Until dawning horror wipes the smirk off his face.

I haven’t squeezed the clutch yet—haven’t even begun to make my move. But Adrik knows exactly what I’m about to do.

He takes a step forward, his expression dark enough to stop a coward’s heart dead in their chest.

Low and savage he whispers, “Sabrina … don’t you fucking do it .”

I don’t even hesitate.

I pull in the clutch and put the bike into gear.

Exhaust fills my mouth, coating my tongue.

I’m tasting it now.

I want it.

I fucking need it.

Still, I know better than to roar off like Evil Knieval. I just threw a rope around the neck of a stampeding bull—no need to apply the cattle prod.

Gently, I let out the clutch, easing down the accelerator at half the speed I would usually use.

The engine responds like I blew in a gust of pure octane. The asphalt beneath the back tire seems to melt away into black glass as the wheel fishtails, slick and frictionless. I’m not heavy enough, I’m not holding it down.

I drop my ass as low as I can to counterbalance, the bike surging forward with shocking speed, an animal released from its pen. I thought it would run—it’s already at a gallop .

Adrik is sprinting toward me, much too late. The bike tears out of the lot, almost flattening a uniformed valet who has to leap into the bushes to save his skin.

Adrik shouts something after me, his words whipped away by the wind and drowned in the howl of the engine.

With my weight shifted back, the front wheel rears up wild, trying to flip me off its back. I throw myself forward, laying down on it, hugging it with all my might. Determined that no matter what happens, I won’t be thrown off.

I’ve gotta get low, cover the whole thing. Not to be pervy, but it really is like fucking someone—someone trying to throw you off with all their might. This particular someone is a hell of a lot stronger than me.

I am barely holding it together coming toward the first curve of the mountain.

I take that turn on the widest possible line, and still I’m riding the edge of the cliff, a dizzying drop inches to the right of my wheel. I see the dark glint of the ocean far below me, my foot dangling over air, before I can wrench myself back onto the road.

My heart thunders so fast it’s one continuous clench. I’m drunk on terror and the power of this machine.

I’m on the razor’s edge, balanced over a thousand different ways to die.

The stars ignite one by one all around me. No streetlamps to drown them, only the single headlight of the bike, glaring ahead like an eye in the darkness .

Clear as a vision, I remember how Adrik handled this bike—like it was trained to his command. Like it was part of him.

He rode this bike with grace.

I’m not Adrik. Not yet.

The Ducati is on fire between my legs, the engine burning hotter and hotter like it’s about to explode. Each imperfection in the road sends a ripple of motion through us both. I’m a surfer just barely regaining balance as I rip across the wave.

I’m tamping this beast down through sheer force of will. Actually, that’s not true—there’s nothing mystical about it. I’m making a thousand calculations a second to maintain a modicum of control. My blood is pure adrenaline, thin and fine as soda pop bubbling through my veins.

This thing is a rocket, and the only way to ride it is to hold on.

Halfway down the mountain, I come to a straightaway long enough that I dare to touch the accelerator again, giving it a light burst of juice. The Ducati roars and surges forward like it was standing still before, throwing me back, my stomach in my throat.

I let out a shriek of pure glee, instantly whipped out of my mouth.

I’ve never hit G-force like this.

It’s addicting. Even as I slow for the next turn, I already want more.

I spare one second’s thought for poor Adrik Petrov, left standing in the courtyard of the restaurant.

I wonder if he’s found a ride yet?