Graduation (Kingmakers, #5)

by Sophie Lark

Before I can cross the cobbled concourse between the dock and the queues of battered taxis, a black Ducati skids to a halt in front of me, a cloud of exhaust billowing up around us. The chrome muffler sparkles in the sun, the bike radiating heat like a living thing. It’s the Superleggera V4, the fastest superbike in production. Ducati only made five hundred of them, so I’ve never actually seen one in person. My eyes slide down the sleek carbon-fiber frame, the engine settling to a low growl that thrills in my bones. It’s fucking gorgeous. The rider yanks off his helmet, shaking out a head of thick, coarse hair. He’s tanned darker than the last time I saw him, almost as brown as me. His narrow blue eyes, pale as a husky, flick up to meet mine. His bare forearms are dusty from the cobbled streets, clear tracks of sweat cutting down. The hand gripping the helmet is battered, deep cuts across the knuckles. Adrik Petrov, in the flesh. “You’re late,” I tell him. “I’d say I’m right on time.” His English is flawless, the masculine bite of the Slavic accent edging each word.