Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (49)

He is jealous.

Jealous of what I might feel for his cousin.

Jealous of something that he can’t claim as his by force.

“He’s not your fucking fiancé,” he snarls.

“I’ve heard your version of things. I deserve the right to hear his version.”

His jaw forms a hard, square line. A vein in his forehead twitches erratically.

I’m pulling at a dangerous thread here, but I’m riding the high that is his reaction. I like seeing him lose it. And yes, a small, petty part of me enjoys the fact that he’s unravelling over the thought of me demanding to speak to another man.

“My version is the only one that matters.”

“You’re jealous,” I accuse again. “Just a jealous schoolyard bully.”

I want more of his rage. More of his envy. I can see in his face that he’s about to deliver exactly that—and then he stops.

Instantly, the fury disappears behind his icy blue eyes. His shoulders straighten. His jaw unclenches.

And I regret my decision to push him. Because compared to his rage…

Whatever is coming next will be far, far worse.

“I’ve already told you,” he says calmly. “I’m not jealous of Maxim. I have no reason to be. Do you want to know why?”

I ignore the rhetorical question as he eyes me like a predator stalking his prey.

“Because I can make you forget his name in twenty seconds flat.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” I say. It’s supposed to be a taunt, but my voice cracks at precisely the wrong moment. In that crack, Isaak sees everything he’s looking for.

And he leaps on it like a killing blow.

His lips descend on mine. His chest presses me against the wall and his hands slide around my wrists and pin them to my sides.

My head spins, and I can almost feel my arguments tumbling out of my head one by one, like dominoes.

His lips push mine apart and I feel his hot breath a moment before I catch a hold of his tongue.

My moan feels like it’s trapped between my heart and my throat.

The kiss burns. But it’s the kind of soft, aching burn that you crave after hours spent outside in the frigid cold.

It’s the kind of burn that warms you from the inside and reminds you that hope is like kindling. It only takes a little spark to get to a raging fire.

I’m not prepare for the kiss to end when it does. So when Isaak breaks away, my lips follow him.

His blue eyes are intense, but it’s the smugness in them that warns me that he knows exactly just what kind of a victory that I’ve surrendered to him.

“What’s his name?”

I frown. What is he talking about?

Isaak smiles. It’s the slow, arrogant half-smirk that I still remember from our first meeting. Six years later, the heat it sends flushing between my thighs remains exactly the same.

“Camila,” he repeats firmly. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t… I…”

I try and grapple with the strings of the conversation we’d been having just before he’d planted that wreck of a kiss on me. But my brain won’t cooperate. My lips are fumbling and awkward.

He nods, satisfied. Then he leans forward to brush his lips against my ear and whisper, “I told you I could make you forget it.”

He releases me and steps backwards. The cold air rushes back in between us. It seeps beneath my skin. Sinks into my bones. Makes me long for his fire again.

“I told you, Camila: I know you. Never forget.”

Then he walks out of the room. I stay there sagging against the wall, limp and breathless.

My lips are raw. My legs are weak. And my head pounds with disappointment.

Because not for the first time, I’ve let myself down.

And he’s the reason why.

That’s the fundamental difference between me and all the heroines I read about and admire.

They accept only heroes.

I can’t resist the villain.





19





Isaak





In my office, I riffle through the desk drawer and find her file. I have shit to do. Plans to make.

But not even the promise of revenge is enough to steer my thoughts in a clearer direction.

I flip the folder open and see Camila’s face staring out. The photo is blown up and grainy, making it clear it was shot from a considerable distance with a powerful telephoto lens.

Maxim got lazy in the lead-up to his wedding. For nearly six years, he’d done his best to keep our spies at bay as best as he could. Maybe he thought the ring on Cami’s finger would keep him safe.

If so, he thought wrong.

I found out eventually. Learned what he was doing and why. And then I waited, and waited, and waited—until it was time to make my move.

While I was waiting, my spies were gathering information. These photos, for instance. I peruse through them. She’d found a job in a library in Chelsea. In this one, she’s pushing a trolley cart piled high with books. Her ass looks fucking delectable in that slim black pencil skirt.

In another, she’s scanning the shelves in search of something. Her face is turned up, and even though only her profile is visible, it captures a serenity that I haven’t seen much since I brought her to the manor.