Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Alyssa Turner

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Edition, 2019

  Inquiries regarding reproductions and other matters should be directed to the author via email.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “There are certain labels a young lady should avoid at all costs.” Samantha Hunter’s mother spoke in the tone she’d adapted for proposing legislation on the Senate floor, though only the two of them were privy to this conversation.

  “Never selfish or vain. Never greedy or demanding. Never self-indulgent or prideful and never, ever should you allow yourself to be seen as a shameless seeker of attention.” Senator Hunter narrowed her eyes at her young daughter, waiting for her tearful acknowledgement.

  They stood in front of the charred remnants of Samantha’s playhouse, where the teddy bears and dolls lined up safely around a nearby tree stared back at Samantha with accusing eyes. The lawn squished beneath their feet, soaked through and through due to the efforts of the Lake George Fire Department. Her party guests had since left, jumpy after the afternoon’s excitement, their mothers collecting them in a hurry, all wide-eyed with disbelief.

  “I told you that no one was listening to me, and that little jerk with the buck teeth said I was just a weak little girl!” Samantha twisted the bow of her party dress around her finger, her voice raw with emotion.

  “And what if someone had been hurt, Samantha? You could have been hurt!”

  Samantha fingered the rest of the matches in her pocket meant to light the seven candles on her since-forgotten birthday cake. “I’m sorry.”

  “This party was supposed to be your introduction to the children of this community before we leave for the season. What do you think people will remember about you now?”

  Samantha smiled softly, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Whatever it is, they’re never going to forget it.”

  *

  Five years later.

  The music was loud. Thundering base made the cold air feel like it had fingers reaching into Oleg Balashov’s chest and rattling his rib cage. The night sky blinked a million eyes as someone cranked the stereo even louder. Stiff breezes were likely to carry American hip-hop over the rambling brook to the nearest neighbor’s windows and prompt them to call the police. But Oleg didn’t give one fuck about that.

  Four last-year students created a haphazard circle around a makeshift fire pit; the sparks floating up and up into the night sky. Ivan balanced a near-empty bottle on his finger tip and then caught it with the same hand when it teetered off.

  “Your brother needs to hurry up with some more vodka,” Oleg said to Ivan. Then he pointed to Paolo. “The only way I will be able to endure this crap that Paolo likes to listen to is if I’m drunk.”

  Paolo shook his head and rocked to the rhythm. “You just don’t have the moves that I do.”

  The display made Oleg smile, and he knew that was the whole reason they had snuck away from their boarding-school dormitory that night to the empty shell of the grand home where he’d once lived. It was the one night of the year Oleg was glad not to be alone.

  Someone who didn’t know better might call this a party. No one who’d been invited would make that mistake. Oleg found a smile from somewhere buried deep beneath a volatile mix of despair and debauchery. A brotherhood of five gathered for the third year to acknowledge the things they spent most of the time trying to forget. This was their last semester rooming together at Duval House, and though dormitory living held its challenges, he was glad fate had brought them together.

  Compulsively, he glanced at the balcony above them, noticing the way the moon reflected on the billowy sheer curtains that blew like a veil in the breeze. If he stared long enough, he could see a figure twirling pirouettes in a blur of long, feminine lines.

  Henri tossed a pebble at him, bringing his attention back to the present situation. Another year had passed since he’d found his mother cold and glassy eyed in her bed. He didn’t come here to wallow in the misery of that memory. He came to face his sorrow and beat it back with a big fucking stick. Sorrow wouldn’t own him. Powerlessness wouldn’t rule him. He’d come to this empty, forgotten grand chateau to find the strength to face another year with neither of his parents to help him navigate the world. They were both dead. He came here to remember that he wasn’t.

  “Est-tu bon?” Henri asked him.

  Oleg blinked and nodded.

  “Really? Are you okay?” he asked again, coming to sit on the lounger next to him.

  Oleg sat up and nodded again. This time, his head bobbed to the heavy beat raging across the countryside. He grinned at Henri, and Henri grinned back, also bobbing his head to the relentless bass, also throwing his middle fingers up to the unseen demons that tried to drag them down.

  At fifteen, when they’d first spoken of painful revelations in the darkness of their Duval House dorm room, Oleg began to believe he could learn to live with what happened. That very next night, they’d climbed the wall behind the track field and stolen the groundskeeper’s van along with the pint of vermouth stashed in the glove compartment to bring them to this place that was still familiar but didn’t feel like home anymore. He folded his arms closer around his chest in the chill of the March night and lay back against the teak lounger once again. Paolo danced, and Henri and Ivan tossed pea-gravel pebbles at him for their amusement. Paolo didn’t seem to notice.

  Oleg wouldn’t dream of considering himself the most damaged in the group. All of them had scars they’d only recently revealed. There was a measure of solace in the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one with a past that haunted him. The present was what mattered and all of them agreed that their future would be on their own terms.

  After the song ended, Henri seemed to tire of watching pebbles bounce off their oblivious friend, or perhaps the bottle of Burgundy he’d already downed called him to the running brook just steps from the home.

  Unlike the vast majority of boys at Lycée Militaire de Navarre, Henri did not come with a pedigree or the kind of new money that bought a ticket into high society. Henri was the youngest of three brothers and a skinny slip of a boy. His siblings had bullied him relentlessly as long as he could remember. He’d sworn to leave the Paris ghetto where he’d been born and rise above his past. They wouldn’t be good enough to kiss his feet. Those had been his words that night, and Oleg was positive he’d die before failing.

  Ivan came over to Oleg and relaxed on the lounger next to him. He didn’t say anything—no
surprise there. But his sideways glance was received with a nod from Oleg and a barely there smile. He’d be fine tonight. They all would. Because all of that hurt was another year behind them.

  “Anyone thirsty?” Ivan’s older brother, Alexander, called from the hallway. There was another voice that none of them expected. Soft, fluttering giggles floated through the French doors onto the patio.

  Alexander appeared in the threshold with the warm amber light of the home glowing from behind. Next to him, a girl in a fast-food uniform beneath a bright-red ski jacket crossed her arms across her chest and fondled the zipper teeth at her collar. Alexander held up the bag of liquor bottles. The girl lifted her fingers into the air and wiggled them with cautious curiosity in her eyes.

  “Hi,” she said, and Oleg stood up.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a friend,” Alexander said in a simple way that held the weight of so much more. His ice-blue eyes pierced through the dark curtain of night. “A friend with special talents.” Alexander smiled and turned to her. “Remember the guy I told you about? Every year on this night, we help him keep his mind off this really shitty thing that happened to him a long time ago.” He pointed to Oleg. “He’s the one that needs your help.”

  Oleg shook his head, frowning at Alexander, who knew he hadn’t yet been with a girl. “You don’t belong here,” he said to her.

  She walked over to him and lowered herself onto her knees. “Forgive me.”

  Oleg knew he would never forget that moment, not for what she looked like and not for who she was, but for the way her folded body, her upturned eyes, the press of her lips and the words of contrition she spoke made him feel. He forgot this girl was indeed a random stranger. That detail didn’t even seem relevant with the blanket of calm her tortured gaze seemed to lay upon him. She waited for him to say something, to do something, and he was transported to another place, another reality where he was in control and this was not the tenth anniversary of the night when he lost everything.

  Chapter 1

  Ten years later.

  Thirty cases of vintage-year champagne valued at $200,000.00 had been seized during a late-night raid of a known Parisian bordello. Oleg Balashov leaned on his uncle’s kitchen counter with his phone and scanned for any mention of his family name in the latest online update. Either Viktor had paid off the right people or scared the holy hell out of them. As usual, Oleg’s uncle was nothing if not thorough.

  “Nice suit,” Dimitri Balashov said to Oleg as he approached. “How come you aren’t off blowing smoke up some accountant’s ass?” He smirked. “Or whatever it is you do while I get real work done the way Balashov men were meant to.”

  “I have a date. But you knew that already.”

  Dimitri chuckled. “Yes, I get to sling dusty cases of thirty-year-old champagne to the highest bidder, and you get to make nice with some Armenian pussy. You can add diplomat to that squeaky-clean CV of yours now.”

  Oleg grumbled, “I’d rather be slinging cases of champagne.”

  “I’d rather be playing Romeo, but we all have our crosses to bear, yes?” Dimitri pursed his lips like something sour just appeared there. “Lucky you, college boy, Uncle Vlad made certain your cross would be light as a feather.” Dimitri then put his foot on the edge of a chair and rubbed at a scuff on his nubuck loafers with a dish towel. He cursed softly and gave up. “Anyway, she’s got a hell of a body, that Karina Harakian.”

  “Yeah?” Oleg said with the deadpan voice of someone who couldn’t care less. “I must have missed the bikini pose in the pictures your father sent.”

  “Trust me, she does,” Dimitri added with a snarky raise of his eyebrows. “So, how does it feel to be pimped out?” he asked, now intent on straightening his large diamond cufflink as if Oleg’s response wasn’t something of real concern. Dimitri’s indulgent wardrobe choices were a constant source of his attention. Oleg was reminded of the time long ago when twelve-year-old Dimitri folded a twenty euro note and used it as a pocket square in his confirmation suit.

  It had been a long while since Oleg had to endure the company of his oldest cousin. A lot had changed since they were kids. For one, Oleg was now a full head taller than Dimitri. So when Oleg stepped forward into Dimitri’s personal space, wielding his impressive stature with the practiced precision of a Samurai. Dimitri backed away on instinct.

  “Say that again,” Oleg said, his jaw locking with the need for restraint.

  Dimitri sucked his teeth, and his gaze darted to corners of the room. “Pfft. Forget it.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Oleg answered under his breath as his phone sounded off from inside his breast pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the contact image on his screen and smiled. “Salut, Paolo. Comment ça va?”

  “I’m great, my friend. You are back with your whip. Paris missed you.”

  Oleg could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. He hated to disappoint. “Sorry, I can’t get to the club tonight.”

  “What? Henri and Ivan are both here waiting to celebrate your return to your throne.”

  Oleg laughed. “Sarcasm is unbecoming of a man of your clout and influence.”

  Paolo laughed as well. “We missed you too, brother. Ey, Henri wants to talk to you.”

  There was some rustling on their end. “Oleg, you douche bag, how long have you been in Paris without telling us?”

  Oleg warmed at the sound of his oldest friend’s voice. Only a schoolyard rival could forge a bond as tight. “I got here last night and stayed with my uncle, but I’ll see you at the chateau later.” Oleg glanced at Dimitri and swiped his car keys from the counter. He walked toward the door with a meager flip of his hand in the air. “Right now, I’m leaving to take care of some business.”

  “Ah, that sounds interesting. The kind of business that requires some help?”

  Oleg was reminded of the last time he worked a new submissive with all of them and smiled. A year had passed since they said goodbye to their last student. What he wouldn’t do to be on his way to christen another novice.

  “Sadly, no. I have a debt to begin paying.”

  Henri was silent on the other end. Oleg didn’t need to explain that he was talking about his impending marriage proposal. On Oleg’s most recent trip to Paris for one of their decadent long weekends, Henri had made his opinion on the matter blatantly clear. Now that Oleg was back to fulfill his promise, the refrain wasn’t likely to stop.

  “Don’t do it.”

  Oleg sighed. “Our friendship is still important to me. But, at least for the near future, I can’t let my partnership in Club Duval be more than business.”

  “Because now you’re also partnering with the Harakians? You’ll need my surgical skills to sew up all the knife holes in your back before they’re done with you.” He paused. “You’re better than this.”

  Oleg stretched his lips into a thin seam. Henri had always put him on a pedestal higher than he thought he deserved. If Oleg was now the alpha in their close-knit circle, then Henri was his trusted second. The responsibility of living up to Henri’s expectations could weigh heavily.

  “You are still planning to attend our party next week, right?”

  Oleg took in a deep breath. Their annual ritual had only grown in size, even if the meaning behind it had frayed and yellowed over the years. “I wouldn’t miss it. You know that.”

  “Do I?” Henri said, his voice colder than usual.

  “I’ll be there.”

  *

  Arranged marriages might be a thing of the past for most everyone in the western hemisphere, but the old ways weren’t entirely dead for Oleg’s uncle. The Balashovs had been warring with Luka Durchenko and his syndicate since Oleg’s father was murdered. They needed an alliance with the Armenians to turn the tides in their favor against the only other Russian syndicate in Paris. Joining their two families with a marriage of good will was Viktor’s insurance. From what Oleg had heard, the Harikians were famous for their unique brand of bruta
lity. The same men Viktor once called thugs would soon be called family. With the gift of an Oxford education and a life free from the grimy obligations his cousins had, Oleg owed his uncle this and much more. All he had to do was marry the girl and seal the union between their families. No more, no less, and he could continue to live his life just as he had before.

  Oleg would have thought it odd to meet his betrothed for the first time in a Laundromat if he weren’t completely aware that in the underworld, nothing was what it seemed. The clinking of zippers and buckles tumbling round and round made for a broken sort of symphony as he walked the length of the scuffed linoleum floor. Two sallow-faced women in faded plaid shirts sat slumped in their chairs, heads dipped in interest over their respective cell phones. His heavy footsteps called attention to himself. One of them winked at him as he walked by. It was still early, so it was easy to think that the only business going on in that building was all about things getting clean. Oleg appreciated the irony.

  He reached the back and knocked on the inconspicuous metal door with chipped, soiled paint that had once been yellow. It opened, and a tall, leggy blonde in riding boots and a black leather bodysuit stood before him. Her hair was shaved on one side, and the long tendrils left to sweep across her brow were tinged pink.

  She held out her hands, and Oleg didn’t need any further instruction. He raised his arms in the air and let her pat him down. Her voice was surprisingly low and gruff. “You’re here to see Michal?”

  “Yes, my name is—”

  “Balashov. I know. Let’s go. He’s in the office.”

  They descended the staircase leading to a long sandstone hallway bathed in red from the light of ancient looking torchieres. Somehow, Oleg had imagined the place where he asked a woman’s father for her hand in marriage to be a lot better lit. But these were dark times, so he supposed the hellish glow seeping into the hallway’s dingy corners was a good fit.

  Michal Harakian was not a large man, and propping his legs up on his gigantic carved wood desk only made him look smaller. A cigar rested at his lips as he stared off into the depths of some unseen mystery.