Ivan's POV

Her lips crashed into mine like a storm I hadn’t seen coming. She was clumsy, unfocused and drunk enough that the kiss should’ve meant nothing

It meant everything.

She tasted like Macallan and trouble, like that stubborn fire she carried everywhere the one that usually made me want to strangle her. Tonight, it did something else entirely.

For a split second, I froze.

This was Bertha. The butterfly. The girl who’d rather spit in my drink than touch me sober.

But drunk ...