Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(16)

It’s the reason I won’t have another baby. I can’t. No matter what Leo says about making another one.

If I do, that child will be lost to me just as much as the one I miscarried. I’d lose that child to this life, to him. To his legacy, his thirst for power and glory.

Anya may be a tough bitch, but at least she gave me the option of which path to walk.

The doorknob turns. I spin around just as Leo steps into the room. He’s showered, too. His hair is still wet, and he’s wearing different clothes than before. Dark slacks and a light white sweater that hugs every muscle on his body.

I hate that I notice. But more than that, I hate that he looks so good. Who did he have to look good for once I was gone? I wonder if that has something to do with the blonde bitch that still haunts my nightmares from time to time. Brit. The name sits on my tongue like poison.

Leo walks into the room without a word. And that’s when I realize he’s not alone.

Two of his men walk in behind him with large black bags. They place them at the foot of my bed and leave as silently as they came, closing the door behind them on their way out.

Then Leo and I are alone together. My body pings with the awareness of him, but I keep my expression neutral.

“What are those?”

“See for yourself,” Leo tells me.

I sigh. “What if I’m not interested?”

“Unless you’d like to spend the next few months walking around in that robe, I suggest you open the bags, Willow.”

I frown. “I’m not going to be here for months.”

“Of course not. I’m sure you already have an escape plan in place,” he says. “But if it’s all the same to you, that robe isn’t going to keep you warm up here.”

Sighing, I grab the first bag and empty its contents onto the bed. There are jeans, sweaters, blouses, and scarves in a rainbow of colors and styles. I’d never admit as much, but they’re all exactly my taste.

The second bag is lighter. When I dump it out, the frown freezes on my face. “Dresses?”

Formal dresses, at that.

Leo shrugs. “We’re having dinner tonight.”

“Is this your way of asking me out on a date?”

He smiles. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. It’s dinner. And a conversation.”

I tense immediately. “A conversation about what?”

“The last eleven months.”

Fuck. I’m under no illusions about what he wants. He wants my secrets. And if the last hour—not to mention the last two years—has taught me anything, it’s that Leo Solovev always gets what he wants.

Especially where I’m concerned.

But not this time. Not my secrets. Those I’m going to fight for.

“Something scaring you, Willow?”

“It’s Viktoria, remember?”

“That’s a name you have to earn.”

“It’s a name that was forced on me,” I remind him. “By you and all the men who want me to claim it so they can claim me.”

“They’re too late. I already claimed you,” he growls. “I married you before Spartak Belov ever even knew you existed.”

I give him a slow clap. “Congrats. You’re more of an asshole than he is.”

“Smarter, too.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I deal only in facts.”

“Then let me ask you something,” I say, stepping forward. “How long has she been working for you?”

I don’t like his smile. It’s all confident, all knowing. I’m convinced he can see straight through my skull and read my mind.

“Does she occupy a lot of your thoughts, kukolka?”

I feel my knuckles go white as my hands clench into fists. I never used to be a violent person. But I’ve been transformed in the last year. Into a person whose fists have become hungry for the relief that her soul can’t seem to find.

Now, Leo smiles, and as much as I want to launch another attack, I feel the barest hint of hesitation. Because as monstrous as he is, he has a beautiful face. It would be a shame to destroy it. Even if it’s deserved.

“Tell me,” I demand.

He raises his eyebrows, noting the change in my voice. “That was very good. Commanding. Confident. Almost believable.”

“Almost?”

“Your eyes,” he says, pointing. “They give you away.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“How?”

“The tone was pure Viktoria Mikhailov. Self-assured and powerful. But the eyes?” He tips his head to the side like he’s studying a piece of art. “The eyes are Willow Powers. Nervous. Filled with doubt.”

“You don’t know me anymore.”

“That implies I ever bothered getting to know you in the first place.”

These sparring contests are dangerous, mostly because he’s so damn good at them. But my pride is involved now. I don’t back down, even though I know I should.

That’s another thing that’s new. The pride. You can’t survive in this world without it. Without pride, what are you? Just a random person with nothing to prove. Nothing to protect.

He smiles. “But I see you, Willow. The girl you once were is still there, hiding behind that tight little body and some slapdash combat training. Little Willow has been forced inward by an exiled queen who respects only brutality and strength.”