Chapter 3 She's sweet. Innocent. And I don't do sweet and innocent. Never have. I don't know what the hell it is about her, why she's gotten under my skin like this, but she has. I can't get the sweet, pretty lass out of my feckin' head. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, those wide, dark-blue eyes, the little smattering of freckles across her nose that makes her look like something out of a fairy tale. Like something pure. Untouched. Precious. The way she looked at me... It wasn't just curiosity but something else. Like... hero worship? The way her gaze clung to mine after I saved her from that asshole who thought he could corner her. Who thought he could own her. Feck my life. No. Feck my life all the fecking way. Because I don't have time for girls like her. Especially not in the form of a sweet, naive little Russian. Girls like her need to be protected. Kept safe. Cared for. Cherished. And that's not my job. I don't have the space for that. The time. The fucking energy. Not now. Not ever. So I leave. I make sure she's safe, tucked away like something breakable behind glass. I tell myself I'll never see her again. But then I saw the little tat on her shoulder I should've heeded. It should've sent me running, told me to stay away. Instead, it felt like a brand. Like she was already mine. And I knew exactly where we'd met. I clocked the time, made note of it without even meaning to. Thursday, eight p.m., Wolf and Moon. Late enough for privacy. Quiet enough that no one would suspect anything. Just enough time between then and the weekend that it wouldn't draw attention. No reason for anyone to be watching too closely. I should go back to Ireland. But I tell myself there's still work to do here in Russia. Still unfinished business. The Kopolov family fucked us over, and I'm here to make sure it doesn't happen again. So I show up. Next Thursday. Eight o'clock sharp. Back at the same place. A quiet challenge to the universe. Keep her away from me. Keep her safe. And a stupid, reckless part of me hopes she comes back. God, I hope she doesn't. I hope she knows better. That she listens and stays far the fuck away from me and everything I bring with me. But that image... her sweet, luscious body, the way her cheek dimples when she smiles, those soft pink lips that look like they were made to whisper secrets into the dark. Is she a virgin? Has she ever been with a man? Not a boy. A man. Does she even know the difference? I could show her. I clench my jaw, close my eyes, and mutter a curse under my breath. Fucking hell. I can't. I won't. And then she's there. Like I conjured her with my thoughts. My sweet little angel, wide-eyed and curious. She meets my gaze across the room, and my breath fucking stalls. She shouldn't be here. I told her not to come back. I narrow my eyes at her in warning. She should've listened. She ought to know better. But she doesn't look ashamed. Doesn't look nervous. She looks... defiant. That stubborn little chin of hers tilts up like a challenge, and something sharp and electric slices through me. So I crook a finger at her. A command, plain and simple. Is she going to obey me? My god, if she does. Sure enough, she whispers something to her useless feckin' friend, gets to her feet, and walks that short, dangerous distance across the room to where I sit. "I told you not to come back here," I say. It's barely a whisper, but it hits like a threat. Everything I say to her feels like foreplay. Like teasing. Like temptation. And I shouldn't be doing it. I know that. "I told you," I repeat. "And I'm telling you," she says with a smile, "that you're not in charge of me." Oh. Brave little lass, eh? But her eyes betray her. There's a flicker in them. Uncertainty, maybe? Need, definitely. A silent, unspoken thought: I want you to be. Aye, sweet lass. You and me both. "Have you stayed out of trouble?" I ask her, gentler now. I pull the chair beside me out for her. She slides into it without a word, her body tense but eager. "Yes," she says. But it sounds more like a question than an answer. There's hesitation in her voice that makes my brows draw together. "Why does that sound like you're lying to me?" I lean closer. I nod at the waitress to bring drinks. And then it hits me. Feck, is she even old enough to drink? "How old are you?" "Twenty-two," she says, too fast, like she's rehearsed it. Little liar. I growl under my breath. "Aye, try that again." She blinks. "Twenty?" That might be a lie too. But I decide it's good enough. Barely. She's old enough to drink. Old enough for more than that, but still... She's twelve years younger than I am. Good luck, bad luck? Which is it again? "You have a keeper?" I ask. She frowns. "A keeper? What is that supposed to mean? Tell me that's something Irish and not chauvinistic." I lean back a little. "A keeper. Someone who watches over you. Protects you. Keeps you in check." She pauses, like she doesn't want to answer. Then she sighs and gives me a small nod. "I guess. I have brothers," she admits. "Too many fucking brothers." I growl again. That filthy word doesn't sound right coming from her mouth. Her lips are too soft, her face too fucking pretty. "You ought not curse like that," I tell her. Her cheeks flush pink. Embarrassed, and slightly flustered. That adorable little chin juts out again. "Why the fuck not?" I lean forward, push her drink toward her, and take her hand in mine. I run my thumb slowly over the top of it, watching her squirm in her seat. "Because I told you not to." She doesn't pull away. She meets my gaze and then looks away again, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Sweet trouble, I think. Then, "Sir," a voice breaks in behind me. I don't even look. I'm here mapping out the Kopolov family. I've got guards stationed in every direction. Eyes everywhere. Spies. Plants. Watchers. I hold up a hand, wordless, signaling to give me a minute. "Sir," the voice says again, more insistent now. A clearing of the throat. Another warning. What the actual fuck? No one interrupts me. I don't allow it. And now he's risking his fucking life by interrupting me. "Wait," I say over my shoulder, before I turn to her. "You shouldn't be here, babydoll," I whisper. "This isn't a place for a girl like you. Someone could hurt you. Someone could take advantage." But I don't say the rest out loud. Someone like me. "Protect me, then," she whispers quietly, without really asking. "Just like you did before." And fuck, I will. I fucking will. But I don't know if that's the right thing here. What the actual fuck am I doing? "Sir," comes the voice again from behind me, more insistent this time. I turn and level him with a look. "Interrupt me one more feckin' time," I growl. I don't need to finish the sentence. He blanches, bites his lip, then takes a step back. "It's urgent, sir," he croaks, nervous now. "I'll be with you in a minute." I turn back to her. She's watched the exchange with interest. "What's your name?" she asks softly. "James," I tell her. It's not exactly a lie. James is a version of my real name. Close enough. Even if I told her the full thing, she wouldn't know who I was. I'd have to tell her my nickname, too, and I'm not doing that. "That's a lie," she says, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of her lips. "But it's nice to meet you, James. Where are you from?" She's a sharp one. "Ireland," I say, watching her carefully. She snorts. "I'd have to be dumb to not realize you're Irish with a brogue like that. What part of Ireland, James the Liar?" She smiles. "The powerful, scary Irish liar." I can't help it. I smile. I never smile. So why the fuck am I smiling at her? "The part near the water," I say evasively, grinning at her, knowing full well I haven't narrowed it down at all. I wish I didn't have to hide. I'd love to tell her I'm from Ballyhock, the most gorgeous little coastal village just outside of Dublin. And I miss it. I miss it so much, my heart aches. "A better answer, I guess. What brings you to Moscow?" she asks sweetly. "What gives you the impression I'm about to tell you anything true about me?" I shoot back across the table. She leans toward me. There it is again, that faint, floral smell. Subtle, addictive. And her gaze is locked on mine. "And what's your name?" I ask, expecting her to lie like I did. "Zoya," she says. For some reason, I know she's telling me the truth. And just like that, my entire world comes to a screeching halt. Fuck. "That's a beautiful name," I tell her, trying to keep my poker face, trying to make sure she doesn't hear the record screech in my head. "Sir," the voice behind me says again, louder now. But now I know what's so urgent. She's Zoya feckin' Kopolova. The youngest daughter of my enemy. And she's walked straight into my trap. I've never wanted to let someone go so badly in my life. "Would you like a drink, James?" she asks, dragging out my name like she knows exactly what she's doing to me. "I like to stay alert," I tell her with a wink. "I don't drink." "An Irishman who doesn't drink?" Her eyes go wide. "Is that for real?" "Of course it is. I used to like Guinness, used to get plastered. But I like to be in charge of all my senses, my reactions. That gives me the edge. Especially over someone who's drunk or high." She raises a brow, teasing. "Are you telling me you're drinking soda?" She points a slender finger at my glass, smirking. "It's a prop." I smile. "How old are you again?" She looks old enough to drink, barely, but I needle her just to see how she reacts. She doesn't disappoint. She sits up straighter, squares her shoulders, and gives me this haughty little look, cheeks flushed pink. And I can already picture how I'd make her whole body flush like that, pink and breathless under me. The tension between us spikes. "Twenty," she repeats. "You?" "Too old for you," I say with a sigh, as if it's her goddamn age that makes her forbidden. "What's your drink, lass?" "I'm not sure yet," she says with a shrug. "I like lots of things. Beer. Wine. Mixed drinks. You know." I do know. And I'm not sure I like her drinking. "You do realize," I murmur, "that every time you take a drink, you let your guard down, don't you? You become a little more vulnerable." "Yes," she says softly. "I do. But it also helps me relax... a little." She exhales a shaky breath. "My family is... intense." "I bet they fucking are," I mutter. "I know what that's like." "Do you?" She cocks her head to the side with genuine interest. "Aye. I'm the oldest," I tell her. "The one with the most to carry. Now that my dad's getting up there, he looks to me. He's lost a bit of cognition in recent years, you know? Lived a hard life. It's taken its toll." I run my finger down the side of my glass, gathering condensation. Why am I telling her this? "I'm going to have to step up. No question about it." "And to get away from it?" she asks, tilting her head. "What do you do?" "Work out. Go for walks. Read." I look away. "Where I come from, it's beautiful." I can picture the blue-green sea crashing against the rocks. Quaint shops. Flowers lining every path. God, I miss it. "Where'd you go just now?" she asks gently. How the fuck does this woman, who barely knows me, see right through me? "Just imagining being home," I admit, the nostalgia thick in my voice. "I want to be home." Fuck, I really do. But I promised my father I'd scope the Kopolovs. I guess in some strange way I never planned... I'm doing what I said I would. A Fated Encounter movie summary talks about Emma Brown who is forced by her father Henry to take her sister Bella's place and marry Tommy Anderson to save her business. Unlike the rumor Tommy turns ou...