Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(12)

His eyes burn with a quiet satisfaction that makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst into flame. I want to kill him as much as I want to kiss him.

Fuck me.

I jerk away from him before things get out of hand and walk towards the living room. I stop at the edge of the burgundy carpet. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling gives and refracts light, casting rainbows around the room.

I swing around, aware that the alcohol has set my tongue free but unable to rein myself in.

“Did Brit decorate this place?” I taunt.

“Does it matter?”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. And it unravels me.

I’ve spent eleven months’ worth of nights dreaming of that smile.

And eleven months’ worth of days trying to forget it.

Now, it’s in front of me, reminding me of everything I’ve lost. Of everything I’ll never get back.

“You’re dangerously close to drunk, Willow,” Leo says, taking a step towards me. “Go to your room before you do something you’ll regret.”

I walk right up to him. “You may be able to order that blonde bitch around, but not me. You don’t control me.”

He lifts his hand to my face. I brace for a slap that never comes. Instead, slowly, he brushes the back of his hand over my cheek.

I freeze, mostly because if I move, I’ll reveal everything. My facade will shatter, and he’ll know how much this is affecting me.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter.

He leans in close, his words a whisper across my skin. “Then why do you tremble when I touch you?”





5





LEO





Willow is a study in contrasts.

Her eyes burn with anger, but her lips have fallen open, softening under my seduction. I can’t tell if she wants to kiss me or kill me. I’m not even sure which one I want her to try.

It’s thrilling.

Everything about her is thrilling. The last year has ignited a new aspect of her personality. She’s changed, inside and out.

The clothes are different—dark, tight-fitting, towering heels—but more important is the confidence she wears. The confidence to wield her looks like the weapon they are.

She’s been molded into a version of her mother, but she has something that Anya has never possessed: the perspective of a different life. A normal life.

One that she’s realized she’s never getting back.

She’s a ticking time bomb. And I’m very fucking excited to make her explode.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps confidently.

I arch my eyebrows. “So there’s another reason you’re trembling?”

“Call it preparation.”

“For what?”

“A fight,” she says.

The next thing I know, her arm is swinging towards me.

She’s fast, but I’m faster. Her fist hits my forearm instead of my face. I shove her back, but the fight in her eyes is simmering. She’s been waiting for this moment.

She wants to do damage, yes. But it’s more than that: she wants to prove herself, too. She wants to show me that the last eleven months has changed her. That she’s no longer the woman I married.

She moves again. Her body is lithe, agile. She has a grace that speaks to many hours of intense training.

And whoever trained her trained her well.

Unfortunately, not well enough to matter.

But she hasn’t realized that yet. She drops into a crouch, hands up, then makes her move, swinging a leg out in a wide arc designed to knock my feet out from under her.

I step out of the way and let her foot hurtle aimlessly through the air.

More kicks and punches follow. She’s a whirlwind of motion. None of it helps her in the slightest. I play with her, side-stepping every blow without breaking a sweat.

Her eyes narrow in frustration as her chest heaves. “You’re holding back!” she accuses.

“Did you expect that eleven months would be enough?” I taunt. “I’ve been training since I was a child. I never learned to play. I learned to fight.”

She lunges at me, but it’s sloppier now. She’s emotional and spent by our reunion.

“Fuck you,” she growls, trying to land another punch.

This time, I allow her the hit. The punch to the abdomen is more powerful than I expect, but the sting only lasts a few seconds. It hurts her worse than it hurts me.

She shakes her hand out. “Jesus. Are you wearing armor under there or something?”

I smile and lift my shirt to reveal the abs underneath. “I grow my own armor.”

She rolls her eyes and pretends to be unimpressed. “Sorry I asked.”

“Are you, though?”

Her eyes burn through me as she slides out of her coat and throws it across the sofa next to her.

Now, it’s my turn to be impressed. I can’t take my eyes off her body.

The coat hid a lot more than I’d assumed. Willow always had an amazing shape, but now she’s made of sharp lines and toned limbs.

Her stomach, which was always flat, sports new definition. She’s cinched tighter at the waist. She looks strong, capable.

“I’ve got news for you,” she tells me, shaking out her limbs. “I was holding back, too.”