Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

“I am going to kill you! With a capital K. And a capital I. All the capital letters,” I cry out. “Because that’s how much I mean it.”

Hope, my soon-to-be-dead best friend, has the audacity to yawn. “It’s seven in the morning, Nova. Can we schedule my execution for a more reasonable hour?”

“He. Texted. Back.”

Silence crackles between us as Hope’s brain catches up to exactly why I’m going to K-I-L-L her. “Who? What? Wait… Are we talking about who I think we’re talking about here?”

“The man you sent my sex fantasy to? That’d be the one, yeah.” I pace across the threadbare six feet between my bedroom wall and my bathroom door. “Hence the murder. Yours, to be specific.”

“Holy—” She suddenly sounds much less drowsy. “What did he say?”

“No idea. I saw his name on my screen—thanks for entering him as a contact in my phone, by the way, you psycho—then I got on the phone to yell at you. Obviously.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hope’s voice rises an octave. “You wake me up at ass o’clock to threaten my life, and you haven’t even read the message?”

“Of course I haven’t!” I screech. “What part of ‘you sent him an audio file of me saying I wanted to climb him like a tree’ are you not grasping?”

Hope just chuckles, completely immune to my panic. “Since you woke me up, you now need to pay the tea toll. Tell me what he said.”

“It’s probably a restraining order.”

“Nah, that would be hand-delivered.”

“Spoken like someone familiar with the process.”

“You know what?” she fires back. “If bringing together two people who are obviously into each other with one little audio file is wrong, then I don’t want to be right. ‘Arrest me, officer. I did it in the name of love.’”

“It wasn’t love.” My teeth grind together. “And he wasn’t into me!”

I may or may not have replayed our conversation a dozen times last night, dissecting every little morsel into piles of “He’s not interested” and “He wants me,” but I’ll never tell Hope which side won. It would only spur her on, and the last thing my best friend needs is encouragement. Men like Samuil Litvinov don’t slum it with girls who walk dogs for a living.

“Really?” Hope’s voice drips with skepticism. “Then why did he text you?”

I have no answer for that.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I’m going back to sleep for another hard fifteen, and then I have to get ready for a new client. Text me what lover boy says once you grow a pair.”

“Hope—”

“Loveyoubyeee.”

She hangs up on me and I’m left to stare at my phone like the ticking time bomb it is.

My hand actually trembles as I hover over the screen.

“God, get it together,” I mutter. Gritting my teeth, I bite the bullet and open the text.

SAMUIL: I wasn’t aware that the Rufus treatment was part of your services. Just for future reference, Rufus isn’t my type. His walker, on the other hand…

My heart flutters like a hummingbird on meth.

He’s flirting with me. Actually flirting with me. Hope was right.

My vision blurs behind a veil of stars and suddenly, I see the two of us, walking down Lincoln Park hand in hand.

Ridiculous. Stop it.

One silly little text message, and I’m already getting literal years ahead of myself. I wipe my sweaty hands on my shirt and try to come up with an appropriate, flirty, witty, effortlessly effervescent reply.

It’s harder than it sounds. Mostly because I have zero game when it comes to men. Hope’s horrendously inappropriate meddling has gotten me further with a man than any of my own attempts ever have. It’s sad.

I’m not even sure I want to be tangled up with someone like Samuil Litvinov. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be “tangled up” with him? But a relationship with the richest man in the city sounds complicated.

Then again, my vibrator’s been working overtime lately, and the man’s face belongs in a museum. Now probably isn’t the time to get picky.

Before I can overthink it into oblivion, I type out a response.

NOVA: Rufus will be heartbroken to hear it. He was really into you.

No, I save the panic for after I’ve sent the message.

Too casual? Too eager? Not eager enough? This is why I’m perpetually single.

I stare at his message and my response, reading and rereading until it hits me that I have a job to do. I have exactly eight minutes to get my ass across two blocks for my first client of the day.

Throwing on a light coat and grabbing my bag, I dart out of my messy apartment and jog to pick up Trixie.

I’m almost there when my phone buzzes, and I screech to a stop, earning me death glares from the suits power-walking behind me. They grumble and complain, but I’m too busy pulling out my phone to care about their morning commute.

SAMUIL: Was he the only one?

I grin so hard my cheeks hurt.

My body practically aches to respond right away, but a year away from the dating game hasn’t changed the one fundamental rule I know to be true: You can’t make yourself too available.

No one likes catching dead fish, Hope always says. Men want something with a little wiggle in it.

I don’t love that I’m a fish in the analogy, but she isn’t wrong. So instead of replying right away, I pocket my phone, pick up Trixie, and walk over to Jackson Park. All the while, I noodle around with possible replies.

Only when we’re settled on our usual route do I allow myself to respond. I write and delete at least a dozen messages before I snap a picture of Trixie, her one good eye gleaming and her crooked tongue lolling out the side of her mouth like always.

NOVA: Not at all. Rufus told my other clients all about you. Trixie’s interested, too. You might want to dress down if you’re passing by Jackson Park. I don’t want to overstimulate her.

I second-guess myself the moment the text message whooshes away into the ether. Do I sound witty or is this trying too hard? Is Samuil sitting in his corner office right now, cringing at how desperate I am?

My phone pings again.

SAMUIL: Jesus, what’s wrong with that dog?

I burst out laughing. In my opinion, the fostered mutt is cute as a button, but not everyone finds her overbite and missing eye as charming as I do.

NOVA: Trixie doesn’t subscribe to conventional standards of beauty. That’s kind of what I like about her. She’s authentic.

Against my better judgment, I type out a second message before he can even respond.

NOVA: She’s sweet and loving and she never humps strangers on park benches even if she’s attracted to them. Doesn’t that count for something?

Cue the double-text anxiety. That was too far. You’re a dead fish, Nova. You’re a lifeless, scaly, wet, gasping little⁠—

SAMUIL: I don’t know. There’s something to be said for a woman who goes after what she wants.

My heart skips a beat, and I almost run into a passing jogger. I end up parking my ass on a bench so I can safely disappear into my phone.

NOVA: Trixie is the shy type. Very demure.

SAMUIL: As interesting and “authentic” as Trixie is, I’m more interested in learning about the woman walking her.

I chew the inside of my cheek so hard I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

NOVA: What would you like to know about me?

SAMUIL: Is pulling giant dogs off innocent bystanders your full-time profession, or is there something else you do?

NOVA: Stopping dog-on-human assault is just a side project I’m passionate about. But as of two months ago, dog-walking is my full-time profession.

SAMUIL: Why did you make the switch?

Something in his tone—even through text—makes me pause. It’s not the usual judgment I get when I tell people I walk dogs for a living. I would’ve thought he’d be too busy counting his billions or whatever the fuck billionaires do all day to notice me. But this is… curiosity. Genuine interest.

Maybe that’s why I type out the truth instead of my usual deflection.

NOVA: Because I love animals. Dogs in particular. What you see is what you get and I appreciate that. People will lie, hurt, judge, and betray, but a dog will never pretend to be something it’s not.

I steered our banter into accidentally deep waters in less than ten messages. That has to be a new personal record for speed at which I can ruin the vibe.

But Samuil doesn’t seem to mind.

SAMUIL: You make a good point. Animals are simple.

My fingers brush against the raised scar on my wrist, silver-white and smooth after all these years. A permanent reminder that nothing in life is simple.

NOVA: I wouldn’t say that. But I would say they’re straightforward. The dogs who bark the loudest and bite the hardest are the ones who have been hurt the most.

SAMUIL: Speaking from experience?

NOVA: Something like that.

SAMUIL: Maybe one day you’ll tell me about it. Over drinks, preferably.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Even Trixie has abandoned her sniffing to stare up at me with her head cocked to the side. It’s almost as though she can sense the change that’s taking place inside me.

Cautious optimism is a whole new ballgame—though the dash of bone-deep fear is still painfully familiar.

The smart answer would be no. The safe answer would be no.

But I’ve never been particularly smart when it comes to beautiful things that might hurt me.

NOVA: Maybe…

One word. Five loaded letters. A thousand possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

I stand up, tugging gently on Trixie’s leash. She follows without hesitation, trusting me completely to lead her wherever we need to go. Dogs are like that—they’ll follow you straight into hell if they love you enough.

As we walk away from the park, my phone stays silent in my pocket. But I can feel it there, heavy with promise and warning. Like a collar waiting to be fastened around my neck.

The question isn’t whether Samuil Litvinov will text back.

The question is whether I’ll be able to handle what happens when he does.