Midnight Purgatory (Bugrov Bratva #1)(4)

She still doesn’t look convinced. So I stick out my hand. She flinches away before she realizes what I’m doing.

“I’m Uri Bugrov,” I tell her. “No longer a stranger.”

Delicately, she places her tiny hand in mine. “Alyssa Walsh.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alyssa. Now, are you going to walk to my house or am I going to have to carry you?”





3


ALYSSA


I opt to walk.

One, because I don’t want him to think I want him to carry me.

And two, because if he so much as tries, I’m gonna blush so bad that astronauts flying through space will be able to see my red cheeks. Uri will feel me radiating nuclear-level embarrassed heat and will assume the obvious: that I’m completely and utterly infatuated with him.

Which I’m most definitely not. Apart from having a healthy appreciation for his rock-hard physique and symmetrical bone structure, that is. I mean, physical attraction is only skin-deep, right? Practically meaningless.

I mean, sure, I have been known to ogle him in the past from the reading nook in my bedroom. But I ogle Henry Cavill, too. Doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.

It’s a long, silent trek across the lawn back to the mansion. He leads me inside without any sense of pride or even the slightest hint that he knows he lives in the fucking Taj Mahal of L.A. I do my best not to gawk as we pass by double-height floor-to-ceiling windows, dark oil paintings, and black leather couches big enough to hold everyone I’ve ever known.

The living room overlooks the garden, which can be seen through the massive bow windows that hug the curve of the room. A maid cleaning one of the nooks startles when she sees Uri, then blushes bright red.

Yeah, I feel ya, sis. Better you than me, though.

“Mariska, can you bring in the first aid kit, please?”

Hm—polite to his household staff. Didn’t expect that.

Then again, what did I expect? It’s not like I know everything about this man. But also, I’d be lying if I said I knew nothing about him.

I know he likes to entertain women. Mostly blondes with the superhuman proportions of a Kardashian. But it’s not the only piece of information I have.

I also know that he likes to toss around a football on the front grounds of his property with a younger man that looks too much like him to not be his brother. I still remember the first time I saw them playing. My head was first turned by the shirtless, sculpted perfection of Uri’s abs. But it stayed turned because of the way he interacted with his brother. Not the usual no-nonsense, don’t fuck with me vibes that he always exudes even from a hundred yards away. But something more relatable.

He looked like an average guy. Well, that is, if the average guy is over six feet tall with impeccable biceps, washboard abs, and a face that could make the angels weep. More to my point, he looked like a big brother having fun with his younger brother.

It reminded me of the way Ziva and I used to be with each other. Comfortable. Easy. Effortless.

It made me sad and envious and needy all at the same time. That was the real reason I was maybe slightly too interested in Uri Bugrov. That was the real reason I couldn’t totally hate him.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the reason I just accepted this invitation into his home.

Because I wanted to see if there’s a human behind the flawless mask.

“Sit.”

I obey before I even realize what I’m doing, taking a chair facing the windows. I scowl at my submissiveness, but it’s too late to muster up some backbone, so I just sigh and sink into the seat. He wasn’t wrong—my leg does hurt.

“You have a nice house,” I remark.

He doesn’t smile like most people do when people compliment their homes. He just nods apathetically. “I do.”

“The humility is astounding.”

“One of my finer qualities.”

He’s not looking at me. He’s rummaging through a cabinet nearby. I clear my throat awkwardly as I look around in search of something to talk about. I’m not the greatest with tense silences. Or awkward silences. Or really, silences in general.

“You live alone?”

He frowns as though he finds my question offensive. “I have staff. Some of them live on the property.”

“No family?”

Maybe the guy I’ve seen him play football with is not actually his brother. Maybe he’s just a friend? A coworker? Secret lover?

Now, wouldn’t that be a plot twist?

I glance around the room and notice that the maid, Mariska, left the door to the cabinet she was cleaning open. I can see a frame peeking out, half a photo, a few stoic faces.

“Is that your family?”

Before I know it, the cabinet door is slamming shut. Uri’s blue eyes skewer me impatiently. “I don’t talk about my family. Don’t ask me about them again.”

Whoa. What the hell was that?

Then again, I remember people asking me about Ziva right after the funeral. I told them all to fuck off. Coming from Shylyssa, those words had more bite than intended. But they got me what I wanted: solitude.

“Okay,” I croak. “I won’t.”

His eyebrows arch like he’s going to say something else. Then Mariska walks back into the living room with a hefty-looking first aid kit.