“Damn…”
I should stop, but her heat is a searing temptation, guiding my way, growing hotter the closer I come.
Until finally, I touch fire. Wet and burning… So goddamn wet.
Her ragged intake of air resonates with the cadence of a scream. All at once, reality comes crashing back.
I rip away from her, running my hand against my side to scrape her off. As if it would be that easy. My cock is threatening to tear through my fly, my lungs swollen with her scent.
To counter the lust, I have to recall Fabio’s advice. Use her.
“Safiya is allowed to hate me,” I tell her thickly, stumbling over my words.
I’m surprised she’s still here, panting loudly, swaying on her feet.
“If that’s what you want, then hate me. But Willow? She can use me… As a partner,” I clarify, stepping back. The less of her smell I inhale, the clearer my head feels. “Do you want to find out who tried to have your mother killed? Then work with me.”
Her eyes widen as she smooths the front of her dress, tugging the hemline down. My eyes follow, chasing the paleness of her thigh before I get ahold of myself. Enough.
“No threats,” I clarify, attempting to draw upon Fabio’s sense of calm. “No strongarming. Nothing but your own free will. We work together.”
My words aren’t calculated, rehearsed bullshit like Fab’s. I’m sloppy in comparison, but she understands me anyway.
“Fabio’s too analytical to find the asshole in time,” I add. “Mischa? He’s too reckless. But you and I?”
I swallow hard, picturing how she watched me murder that bitch Paulie Vanetti.
“We know how a sick, calculated motherfucker might think. You aren’t the kind of person to sit around, waiting for your future to be decided by anyone else. Either work with me or leave. I won’t stop you.”
I beat her to the door, heading for the stairs. Down the hall into the kitchen. Out.
The fresh air is a punch to the system, but I relish in it. Every chilling, shocking burst of the cutting wind, is a welcome call back to reality.
A world in which the past can’t be overcome by a one-sided conversation. Where a woman who smells like fucking roses can be linked to a monster through no fault of her own.
A world where forgiveness isn’t even on the goddamn table.
17
Evgeni
Hours after my last attempt to contact a Stepanov agent, a message from an unknown number flashes across my cell phone screen. This is Mario. What the hell did you do? You must have been blacklisted, Ev. I don’t know why. I can’t even reach you through my designated cell. This is a burner. Can’t reply. Will contact when I can.
Despite his warning, I try replying anyway, only to receive silence in return.
Damn. Mischa isn’t this petty. Something is wrong, and the suspicion gnaws at my psyche. What the hell am I even doing?
I should be on my way to Stepanov manor. Even if Briar’s story is partly a lie, the mentioning of Saleris and Antonio Salvatore triggers several alarm bells. It stinks to hell and back.
A smart man would be hitting the ground running, gathering whatever intel it takes to get to the bottom of this mess.
Instead, I’m entering an overpriced hotel room after dark, my nostrils wrinkling with a distinctive scent. Damn her. I think she showered again.
“You’re back,” she declares, lying unabashedly naked on the bed. The city itself is her backdrop, the neon lights reflecting off her pale skin in garish shades of red and green. She makes no move to cover her breasts, or the sliver of golden curls between her legs. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was posing on purpose.
The reality is she’s exhausted, in too much pain to move.
“You certainly took long enough,” she gripes with a sigh. “Let’s see it, then.”
I snatch my sole purchase from the shopping bag and raise it in a fist. “Here.”
It’s a dress, one bought with my own damn money.
She eyes it, wrinkling her nose. “It will have to do. Though I’m assuming your fashion sense isn’t what attracts the swarms of women, you must keep.”
Ignoring the taunt, I approach the window as if the view alone might snap some sense back into me. The harbor in the distance glows silver in the moonlight, the waves glimmering. Its proximity to the bay is the defining jewel of Hell’s Gambit, the one marker that makes it relevant on the world’s stage.
To hear Briar Winthorp tell it, a new outfit is all she needs to take on a man powerful enough to claim ownership of everything in sight.
“What the hell is your plan?”
I hear the swish of fabric and assume she’s changing into the new dress.
“My plan? To render you unconscious, escape with your I.D. and van and grovel my way into Johnathan’s good graces.”
I turn to find her standing beside a floor-length mirror near the entryway, smoothing her hands along her hips. The dress fits her for what it’s worth, clinging to her curves, enhancing the shape of her breasts. She’s so caught up in inspecting her appearance that I think the impact of her threat is lost on us both.
“You are transparent; I will give you that,” I snarl once her words finally register. Am I surprised if this has been a ruse from the start? No. “And predictable. How do you plan to attack me?”
She cocks her head, frowning. Then she laughs. “I don’t mean for real. Honestly, you are so paranoid. It’s the story I plan to tell to explain my miraculous reappearance, of course. You are gullible, soldier, but with your strength, even I can admit that it would be hard to overpower you without a fight. I need evidence to make my escape believable.”
She places her hands on her hips, arching her back to display her cleavage.
“My injuries will
