Demand (Careless Whispers #2)(44)

Yet when my door opens, a rush of nerves overwhelms me, my mind flashing with an image of me on my knees, and that man, Niccolo or whoever he is, holding my hair. Pulling my hair.

“Ella.”

Kayden’s voice is silk on my nerves, where that memory had been sandpaper and razor blades. I look right and realize that he’s kneeling beside me, his hand holding mine. “Flashback?”

“Yes. It was sudden and short but intense.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do,” I say, irritated at having allowed an * from my past to control me in the present.

“We don’t,” he insists.

“Don’t doubt me,” I say fiercely, facing him, my skirt riding high. Cold air zips along my bare skin, but I am not cold. Not when Kayden and I are suddenly staring at each other and his hand is on my leg, fingers resting on the lace of my thigh-high, a hot touch I welcome and crave. Because it’s him. Because he is right in every way that other man is wrong.

“I don’t doubt you,” he promises softly, the air charged between us. “I have never doubted you.”

He isn’t talking about this moment, any more than I was. Some part of me still fears the past and what it will do to us.

“I’m afraid of losing me and us. And I hate that fear, but you matter to me—more than I think you understand. I just want you to know that.”

His eyes glint hard. “I keep telling you: I’m not letting you go, and he’s damn sure not taking you from me.” He stands, taking me with him, his big body shielding mine while he slides my dress down my legs.

“Thank you,” I murmur as my coat and the scent of him, spicy and rousingly male, wrap around me at the same time, and I slip my arms inside the wool.

“Thank me,” he says, his voice low, almost rough, his fingers branding my hips, “by ending the question of what you’re wearing under this dress besides thigh-highs.”

“Maybe I’m not wearing anything at all,” I tease, sounding breathless, because somehow, some way, in the middle of my blackouts and fears I am oh so very breathless.

One of the valets says something to him in Italian, but before he responds to him, he leans in, his breath a warm fan on my skin as he murmurs, “Careful now, sweetheart. You tempt the beast and I’ll take you to a corner of the party and find out myself.”

Heat zips through me, darn near turning to fire as he walks me to the curb with a quick, smoldering look before turning to the valet, and I’m left with the distinct impression he might just make good on that warning. I watch him talk to the other man, power and confidence wafting off of him, and I’m amazed by how this man makes me feel consumed. And I welcome it, when escape was all I craved with the man in my flashbacks.

Kayden laughs, a deep, sexy rumble from his broad chest, and the way my nipples instantly tighten proves how powerful a drug he is to me. I watch as he palms the man a ridiculously large bill before turning back to me, and I swear, the way he looks at me is like no one else exists. Like I am his moon, sun, and star, and I really do not believe anyone has ever made me feel that special.

“Was that a hundred euros you gave him?” I ask as he drapes his arm over my shoulder and pulls me into the shelter of his body.

“It pays to make friends with the staff.” As we head toward the mile-high red-carpeted steps, two men with cameras start taking photos of us.

“And there’s the press,” I murmur. “Maybe we should stop and pose. That should make tonight the night.”

“That would be a little too obvious,” he says. “Though I have no doubt that Niccolo hacks the press photos for these events. Just not as effectively as I do. Directly or indirectly, I make damn sure The Underground owns every important event in this city, even when I’m not in attendance.”

“Like you own the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood is like a family, and The Underground has been head of the family for a good fifty years.”

“You mean The Hawk has been the head of the family for all of those years.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Which means everything The Hawk does is watched, analyzed, and dissected. And as my woman, you inherit that attention. Be prepared to be badgered with probing questions from people with bad English.”

It hits me then how much trust he’s putting in me—and it strikes me how profoundly important it is that he has sometimes trusted me more than I have myself. “I can handle it,” I promise.

He wraps his arm around my neck and leans down to kiss me. “I know, Eleana.”

I grimace as he loosens his hold on my neck, wondering how he’ll explain my new identity to Niccolo, but it’s too late to ask. We reach the final step, and what amounts to a giant stone porch, where two guards stand at attention on either side of a roped-off continuation of the red carpet. One of the men greets us in Italian, then checks our names off a clipboard after asking for identification. Once he’s satisfied with our identities, Kayden and I walk the remainder of the red carpet, where two additional guards monitor the tall double doors, opening them at our approach.

“Is my gun in my purse a problem?” I whisper, suddenly concerned.

“Not for us,” he says, and I don’t ask for details. This is Kayden. This is the power of The Underground.