“But I should have,” I argue. “That’s the point. I have to stop him.”
“Artem—”
“This has gone too fucking far,” I say, my blood feels like it’s going to boil over. “He needs to be stopped now, not eventually.”
“And we will stop him,” Cillian assures me. “But now’s not the right time. We don’t have the resources and we need more information.”
“The more we wait, the harder it’ll be to derail his plans.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cillian says. “You are the rightful don. There’s power in your name.”
“Power is where the men decide it is,” I remind him. “And many of them chose Budimir.”
“Artem, I know you want to act,” Cillian says, in his measured tone. “But Budimir is desperate to get his hands on you. That means something. It means he’s scared of you. Which is why it’s more imperative than ever for you to stay out of his clutches.”
“I don’t plan on getting caught,” I snarl.
“You are not invincible, brother,” Cillian rebuts quietly.
His words shiver through me, stirring up a strong sense of déjà vu. I see Marisha’s blue eyes looking up at me pleadingly.
One of these days, Artem, you’re going to wake up and realize you’re mortal, same as everyone else.
“I have to protect Esme,” I say, trying to push back my rage. “I have to protect my child. Sitting back and waiting for him to come is just asking for the fight to be brought to my doorstep.”
“Then lie low a little while longer,” Cillian fires back. “We need to wait ‘til the time’s right.”
“Fuck,” I growl, unable to find a counter argument.
“I’ll keep you posted. Stay safe, brother. Look after your family.”
“I will,” I reply. “Look after yourself.”
The line goes dead.
I stare out at the quiet town even more pissed off than before.
I don’t belong here. I should be with Cillian, making moves, tracking Budimir’s plans. Fighting. Not cowering like a fucking bitch.
But even as I think it, the thought of leaving Esme turns my stomach.
Esme needs me more.
I turn on my engine and drive.
Back to the cabin.
Back to my wife.
63
Esme
I’m supposed to be dusting out the sofa cushions on the porch, but I’ve pretty much abandoned that job completely. Instead, my eyes are firmly fixed on Artem.
He’s standing shirtless near one of the larger trees just before the slope that leads to the viewing point. His body glistens with beads of sweat that cover his entire body and highlight the toned perfection of his chest, the hard ridges of his abs.
I leave the cushions on the porch and move closer. Waves of desire flash through my body and concentrate right between my legs.
It’s not like I’m starving for his affection. We have sex at least twice a day. Some days, we never leave the bedroom.
And even when I think I’ve had enough, it only takes an hour’s respite to get me wet for him again.
Artem jumps off the ground and grabs a sturdy tree branch above him. Each pull-up flexes his arms. His face is screwed up in fierce concentration.
When he drops back to the earth, he starts doing a round of push-ups. The lines of his tattoos twist and bulge with the motion.
He’s so focused on his work out that he doesn’t even notice me watching. Not until I walk down the porch steps and lean against the railing.
“Hey, you,” he says, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t stop moving.
“Hey, yourself,” I reply. “Looking good”
He smirks. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Umm… awhile,” I admit.
He laughs. “If I knew you were watching, I would have put on a show for you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you did anyway,” I reply. “I’m one satisfied customer. Well, partially satisfied customer.”
Artem’s eyebrows go up. Then he counts twenty-five and jumps down, his landing causing a small dust cloud to rise around his feet.
“Just partially satisfied?” he asks.
I touch a thoughtful finger to my lips. “I can think of another form of exercise that you could be doing,” I say, feeling a blush snake up my cheeks. “One that involves me.”
“Is that so?” he asks, as I walk towards him, swinging my hips a little extra just for effect.
I’m wearing a long, blue midi dress with thin spaghetti straps. It’s relatively modest as far as these things go.
But Artem’s eyes gloss over my body in a way that makes me feel utterly and completely naked.
“That is, if you’re not too tired,” I finish. I stop a few inches from him, just out of his reach.
“I’m all sweaty,” he points out.
“I don’t mind.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, his eyes darken with lust.
He lunges towards me, grabs me, and pulls me into his body. I squeal as I slap against his hard chest.
Artem wasn’t kidding—he’s soaked with sweat. But when the smell of his musky sweat fills my nostrils, I swear it makes me even wetter.
His mouth closes down over mine. I shudder at the release of his breath mingling with mine.
It’s easy to close my eyes and lose myself in this kiss. It makes my head spin and my knees weak. Before Artem, I had always assumed that was a phenomenon that occurred only in books and movies.
Now, I live it every day.
My hands scour over his chest and his rock-hard abs. All I want to do is lick every drop of sweat right off his body.
Something is deeply wrong with me.
His hands are rough as they run down my body and pull up my dress. I shiver against the cold mountain air—at least, until he squeezes my ass hard and I gasp into his mouth as heat flushes through me.
I love it when he’s rough with me. A primal instinct gets triggered every time he grabs me. Like he’s claiming me for the first time all over again.
I except him to hoist me into his arms and carry me into the cabin. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he pulls me further away from the cabin—right to the smooth stump of a
