Nora's POV
The Blue Tile Bar, Houston – Friday night, late.
The bar is slammed.
Friday night, live band murdering Springsteen, tips flowing like tequila.
I'm in my element: shaking cocktails, flirting for extra twenties, laughing loud enough to drown the static.
Then the door opens and the air changes.
Two men walk in and the entire room feels it.
Mikhail Romanov and Aleksei Volkov. In the f*****g flesh.
In my bar.
My stomach drops through the floorboards.
Lola freezes mid-pour. "Holy hell. Are those Russian archangels?"
I want to die.
Mikhail's gaze finds me instantly.
Of course it does.
He smirks: slow, filthy, like he knows exactly what I look like naked and screaming his name.
I flip him off behind the bar towel.
He laugh
