Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (117)

I arch an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“That I’ll miss you.”

The words feel like a caress and a stab all at the same time. She must notice me flinch, because she says, “Is that so hard to believe?”

I don’t say a word. Her expression twists and I see the disappointment etched on her face. She’s struggling to keep her emotions in check. We both know damn well it’s a battle she’s going to lose.

“Isaak, look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“No, I mean really look at me.”

Grimacing, I meet her eyes. “Is this what you want, Camila?”

She shakes her head. “Do I really mean so little to you?”

Her lips entangle with mine again. I want so fucking badly to give into the temptation. To reciprocate, to do what I’ve always done when she looks at me like this: ravage her until the heat of our passion consumes us both.

But I resist. With all of me.

Well, almost all of me. But when Cami’s hip grazes against my hard cock, she notices.

“See?” she says, her hand brushing against the bulge in my pants. “Your body gives you away.”

“Your body gave you away, too,” I snarl. “I was just too blind to see it.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?” She releases me and steps back as the air fills with tension, the heat of the secret between us.

We’ve arrived at it—the final moment.

The one where everything that’s been irretrievably broken finally shatters to pieces.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” I ask menacingly. “Anything important you’ve forgotten to mention?”

She frowns. “N… no. What else would I need to tell you?”

The desire on her face is quickly being replaced by fear. Her body tenses and her eyes dart around the room, as though she’s trying to pull her secrets closer into her.

She’s starting to suspect that this change of heart is going to come at a price.

She’s very fucking right about that.

“The night I took you to dinner on the Thames,” I muse. “I still remember watching you dress. The way you shimmied out of your clothes… the way your skin seemed to glow…”

She looks like she’s barely breathing. “Isaak…?”

“I admired your body. It was beautiful. Every little piece of it. Even the little marks that women hate so much, it all suited you. Even those little stretch marks were beautiful to me.”

She tries to hide her panic, but it’s there, sprawled across her face. She didn’t have my kind of training in concealing what she feels.

“I didn’t think about it then. But it was right in front of me. Your body gave you away, Camila.”

She shakes her head. “No. No. No.”

I pace closer to her. “Now, little kiska… Tell me about your daughter.”





44





Camila





Inevitable.

That was the word that Bree used. Back then, it felt overblown. Now, it feels like foreshadowing. Or maybe self-fulfilling prophecy.

Either way, he knows.

He knows.

Isaak’s eyes are dark and stormy. He is terrifying as he is beautiful.

Once the shock wears off, though, I’m aware of the disappointment settling in. Because deep down, I had wished for more than anger. It’s na?ve and stupid, but I had wished for… what? Happiness? Excitement?

I should’ve known that a man like Isaak Vorobev isn’t capable of such things.

“How did you find out?” I whisper.

I’m too tired to bother denying it. Too exhausted, from my skin to my soul, to go through that whole song and dance.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” I say with a sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“What’s her name?”

His tone is hard as ice, and it makes me wonder what about this revelation has actually pissed him off. Because somehow, I’m not sure his main source of anger is about the fact that I kept Jo’s existence from him. That’s part of it, certainly. But I feel like I’m missing some aspect of it.

“Jo.”

To my surprise, he nods in recognition instantly. An ironic smile on his lips. “After Josephine March, I suppose.”

I almost smile back. No one in my entire life has ever guessed that. It figures that Isaak would be the first. “Exactly.”

“Does she live up to her namesake?”

“She’ll forge her own path,” I say. “That’s all I want for her.”

Her smirks, but his eyes remain cold. “What you want for her is immaterial.”

I stiffen. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“She’s Bratva, isn’t she?” Isaak says. “There is only one path forward for children of the Bratva.”

“She’s nothing other than my daughter. She’s not going to be used as a prop or a pawn in the games of the Bratva.”

“You’re not going to have a say in that.”

“You have no right—”

“Maxim does, though,” he interrupts.

I stop short. “I… Excuse me?”