Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(13)

She vaults over the sofa effortlessly. Her boots land in perfect synchronicity right in front of me, her black hair flows loose around her shoulders.

I pause and frown. “Why did you cut your hair?”

She shakes her head. “Really?”

I shrug, not bothering to hide my smirk. “Just curious.”

The frivolous question seems to irritate her more than anything else I’ve said in the last half an hour. She throws a punch again, but I dodge it.

“I thought you said you were holding back?” I say. “I couldn’t tell.”

She moves again, and again, I dodge.

I can tell she’s getting frustrated, but I’m not about to give her an easy win. She wants to fight me? Fine. It’s all tough love from here, little one.

She’s not without skill. Her new body is made for physical combat. But it’s more than that. She’s got drive and determination. The fire to fuel the engine.

She sends another punch my direction. I pluck it out of the air, spin her around, and pull her into my embrace backwards. Her spine hits my chest with a dull thud.

She doesn’t rest, though. She swivels around and tries to knee me in the groin.

I chuckle at her sheer boldness. There is no fight in this little kiska.

“Why the hell are you laughing?” she demands.

I side-step another hit to my groin and twist her back around. Once again, her ass rubs against my cock. Instantly, I’m rock hard. Willow notices.

“Is it the fight?” she asks. “Or me?”

I smirk. If she thinks that she can get to me by pointing out my erection, she’s got another thing coming.

“It’s both,” I say. “And those pants you’re wearing. Are they painted on?”

“Good luck getting in them to find out.”

My cock twitches at the thought.

“Oh, darling…” I back her into a wall. “That attitude is admirable, but misguided. I find out everything, remember?”

“It’s not over,” she says—even as I pin her against the wall.

“I have to disagree.”

“I had the best instructor in the world,” she hisses through gritted teeth.

She tries to pry her wrists out of my grip, but it’s useless. I press my chest into her and let her hands go. Immediately, she tries to swing at me, and I snatch them back up. I pin them against the wall on either side of her head so she’s at my mercy.

“No, you didn’t.” I lean close, my lips at her ear. “Because you didn’t learn from me.”

Her tongue runs along her bottom lip, and all I want to do is bite down on it so hard I draw blood. She’d probably bite back, which only makes me more eager to follow through with the carnal instinct.

“This is not over,” she whispers, even as her body sags. She’s accepting defeat. Maybe not in the bigger war, but in this battle.

“I can teach you a few things,” I offer. “For next time.”

She glares at me. “I don’t need anything from you. You’ve done enough.”

I think of our shared loss. The vile words she spat at me in the car ride over here. I pushed them out of my head the moment she spoke them, but they’re still there, burning through the layers of protection I’ve built.

“Is it true?” I growl, staring her in the eye.

I need this to be a lie. It has to be. If it is, then I’ll know. I’ll see the truth reflected back at me and I’ll know.

She’s fully aware of what I’m asking her, but she feigns ignorance anyway. “Which part?”

“The baby.”

She stares right back at me. Her eyes don’t waver from mine, and I feel the hope shrivel in my chest.

“The baby is gone,” she says, in the same detached tone she’d used when she’d told me about her miscarriage. “The doctors said it was stress. I wasn’t equipped to deal with everything I went through.”

I press my chest into hers, and she gasps. I know I’m making it hard for her to breathe, but in this moment, irrational as it might be, I want her to suffer.

I can see a watery veil form over her eyes. She shakes her head. “It’s hard to hear, isn’t it?” she asks. “Imagine what it was like to live through. He was such a tiny little thing… an alien creature that felt like mine but didn’t at the same time.”

If she thinks this tactic is going to give her some breathing space, she’s delusional.

I tighten my grip on her wrists until she cries out. “Making me hurt won’t bring back your son,” she snaps.

“Then we’ll make another one.”

Her eyes go wide, eyebrows arching with disbelief at first, and then hatred. “Of course,” she says. “Of course. Because a child is nothing more than a conduit for your legacy, your power. The child itself doesn’t matter at all, does it? It’s not a baby to you. Just like I’m not a person to you. We’re one and the same: weapons.”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of my reaction. Instead, I pull her hands together, forcing them to connect over her head. Then I pin her wrists down with one hand and use the other to inch down her hard new body.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I enjoy the way she feels. The way she trembles despite herself.