Empire of Sin (Empire #2)(69)

I’m used to it after all this time, but I don’t want that now. I don’t want the distance.

I want him to show me the rest of him as he did with his tattoos.

I want him. Period.

So I dig my short nails into his skin, holding on to a hope I shouldn’t be having.

I’m hoping and buzzing with wishes that have no place in whatever relationship we have.

His hand finds my hip, which is his cue to turn me onto my stomach. My nails dig into his skin and I slowly shake my head.

The thrusting of his fingers slows until it’s an agonizing ache that’s torturous. But his features darken, his eyes turning a molten hazel that’s the weirdest I’ve seen.

His hold on my hip is as tight as his face, urging me to release him, but I don’t.

I can’t.

I don’t want to.

“Let go.” It’s two words. Two single words, but they sound non-negotiable and harsh.

When I don’t, he effortlessly removes my fingers from his shoulder, then easily flips me over. My breasts flatten against the sofa and my body heats so fast that it feels like I’ve been set on fire while being doused in gasoline.

Strange energy rushes through me, demanding I kick and fight, that I hit and claw.

Something. Anything. As long as I’m not in this position, beneath him, where he doesn’t want to look at me.

I think I must’ve moved, because when he gets behind me, he feels stiff, hard almost, as if he’s seeing my inner turmoil.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His tone is clipped, which is the tone he only uses when he’s mad.

And he shouldn’t be right now.

Like I shouldn’t be having these weird feelings.

“I don’t like it,” I whisper, burying my face in the pillow.

“You don’t like what?”

“This.” There’s a brokenness in my voice, and I wish it was because of Kirill and Adrian finding me. I wish it had something to do with them or my double life, but it doesn’t.

Because ever since I stepped into Knox’s apartment, I haven’t thought about that or them.

I’ve only ever thought about him.

The man who’s now pushing off of me. The absence of his weight and his touch make me feel empty, desolate even.

Slowly, too slowly, I turn my head to the side and catch a glimpse of him standing there like a god. His hands are crossed over his muscled chest and he’s narrowing his eyes at me.

“What’s the problem?” His question is calm, but the tone isn’t.

There’s so much tension there, so much punch behind his words that it tightens my throat.

“I just…”

“What? You’re just what?”

“I want to have sex while I look at you.”

“And I want to see your eyes, your real eyes, but neither of us is getting what we want.”

“Why are you so obsessed with seeing my real eyes?”

“Because I’d see the real you behind them. Not the Anastasia from that night or the Jane you became. Just you.”

My lips part and a flash of emotions attack my belly in need of a release.

So I stand up, bent on going to him, on kissing him, on telling him that if he wants to see my eyes, he can.

He’s the only one who can.

Because unlike everyone else who knows me, he wouldn’t see me as Anastasia Sokolov, the only daughter of Sergei Sokolov, the Pakhan of the New York Bratva.

He wouldn’t see me as a sheltered princess to be protected or used. He would just see me. The Anastasia who escaped her jail to be free, to live.

To be alive.

But my impulsive moment is put to a halt when the doorbell rings.

It sounds like an alarm in the stilled silence and I flinch.

Knox, however, seems more annoyed than surprised. “I’ll go get rid of whoever is there and then I’m coming back to see this to the end. Don’t fucking move.”

I wouldn’t even if he hadn’t ordered me, because I’m watching his strong back as he marches to the door.

My toes curl and I’m not sure if it’s because of him or what he said. I like how he never lets misunderstandings stand between us, that he’s always looking forward.

Never backward.

Never sideways.

Always ahead.

And I think it’s rubbing off on me, because I want to be that way, too—a forward-looking person who doesn’t let the past shackle them down.

But I have to talk about it first with him, no?

I have to strip myself bare and actually let him see a part of me that even I’m scared about showing to anyone.

“Good evening, punk.” An older male voice says from the door in a very distinctive, proper British accent.

Before I can wonder who it is, Knox’s next word answers my unasked question. “Dad?”





28





ANASTASIA





Did he just say “Dad”?

My heart thumps against my ribcage and my throat is drying with each passing second. I quickly button my shirt—Knox’s shirt—and I’m grateful it’s big enough to cover my nakedness.

Before I can run to hide into the bedroom or even the kitchen, Knox reappears in the living room accompanied by a much older man who’s probably in his early fifties. He’s wearing a sharp three-piece suit and has light blond stubble covering his jaw.