“So, if I were to say hi, would you be inclined to break anything else? Or is that greeting traditionally reserved for Blackmoores?”

I jumped a little, head whipping to my right. Natalia Avramov now sat three chairs down from me, nestled in the shadowy corner at the very end of the bar, right next to Dead Fred. The Avramov scion lifted a hand in a greeting just short of a wave, in the pleasant and approachable manner of a person who has not just appeared out of thin air.

“Talia,” she reminded me, tapping two fingers, polished a glossy midnight blue, against her collarbone. As if I could possibly have forgotten her.

Granted, Talia had been two years ahead of me in school, but she was also the heart-stopping kind of gorgeous that tends to stick with you. The entire Avramov clan was aggressively attractive, all soaring cheekbones and distinctive eyes and jawlines that could carve glass; like seductive villains that had climbed out of some dark fairy tale with briars still twisted in their hair. They claimed to be descended from Baba Yaga, the notorious Slavic witch hag—who must also have been a stone-cold fox in her youth, judging by the genetic wealth she’d conferred upon her line.

But even by Avramov standards, Talia was a showstopper. A shining sweep of inky hair, creamy skin with a subtle glow that I suspected did not derive from any K-Beauty mask, the kind of impossibly plush lips that gave you notions. And nearly translucent gray eyes, with a sooty ring around each pale iris that made her look like a tundra wolf. A really, really sexy tundra wolf, if this was, in fact, a thing.

She was watching me now with those unnervingly lovely eyes, a hint of amusement coloring her features. As if she knew exactly what kind of effect she had on people.

“Emmeline,” I responded inanely, a little thrown off balance by the intensity of her gaze. “Uh, Emmy, I mean. Harlow.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Harlow.” She tipped her head to the side and smiled at me, a slow, lazy drawing back of those spectacular lips. Talia always did have a weapons-grade smile, along with a truly staggering amount of swagger. The sight of it made my knees feel a little giddy, even though I was already sitting down. Could a knee even feel giddy, I wondered.

Apparently, yes.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of my drink, just to give myself something more socially acceptable to do than stare at her while my knees swooned under the bar.

“Good thing someone does,” I muttered, liquor searing down my throat. “Unlike certain other individuals.”

She snorted a little, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know that Gareth Blackmoore qualifies as an individual, per se, so much as an irredeemable asshat. Or dickwad. Choose your appendage or orifice at your leisure.”

I sputtered a laugh. “Fair point. Though to play devil’s advocate, at least I could see him when he walked in.”