Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (70)

“Talk to me,” I tell her softly. “It might help.”

She gnaws at her lip like she’s considering it. Then she looks up and meets my gaze. “Will you talk to me?”

“About what?”

“About whatever it is that brought you out here looking like the world has just been put on your shoulders.”

“So now you care what’s bothering me?” I taunt.

“What if I do?”

I raise my eyebrows. She breaks the eye contact pointedly. “Oh, forget it,” she snaps. “You don’t have to say a fucking word. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Cami wraps her arms around her body like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her blonde hair flutters over her face, but she makes no attempt to push it back.

So I do.

She jerks away from my touch, but I ignore that and tuck the stray strands of hair back behind her ears. I should pull back immediately, respect her personal space.

But I indulge myself instead. I let my hand linger against her cheek until I’m trailing the soft skin along her jaw. She’s tense, but she allows it, staring at my face the entire time.

I admire the soft curves of her lips. They’re a work of art all on their own. She’s got the kind of face that makes me believe in a higher power.

Because only a deity could be capable of creating something as fucking beautiful as she is.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Camila.”

“You’re not a danger to me,” she whispers.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “That night, the night we met… I asked if you were dangerous. And you said—”

“‘Not to you,’” I murmur, repeating my words from six years ago. “You’re the only person in the world that can say that.”

She gives me a soft smile. The kind of smile that can drive a man to do crazy, irrational, stupid fucking things. The kind of smile that can make a man feel centered, strong, powerful.

More like himself.

“You remember,” she says.

“Of course I remember. I remember everything about that night.”

“Careful,” she says. “Or I might accuse you of being sentimental.”

And despite the black void inside me, I laugh. Because somehow, she’s made that void a little smaller. A little less urgent.

And she’s done it all with a smile.





28





Camila





“Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I tell Isaak. I’m desperate for his warmth at the same time that I’m terrified I’ve begun relying on him far too much.

“Try me.”

He’s standing close to me. Without even realizing it, we’ve gravitated together so that we’re only inches from one another. I should feel uncomfortable, right? I should want to guard my personal space like I guard my secrets.

But he smells so good. And he looks so solid.

He’s the complete antithesis to how I feel at the moment. Which is weak and vulnerable and entirely unsure how I’ve landed in this position.

“I wanted to be Jo March,” I hear myself say. “And somehow, I ended up as Rebecca.”

He blinks.

“I told you,” I say with a sigh, “you wouldn’t understand.”

“What I don’t understand is why you think you’re even remotely like Rebecca. When you’re Jo March through and through.”

I frown, waiting for the punchline, studying his expression to determine if he’s making fun of me.

It doesn’t come. There’s nothing but pure sincerity in his eyes. It’s baffling, not to mention disarming.

“What do you know about Jo March?” I stammer.

He smirks. “About as much as you, I’d guess, seeing as how I’ve also read the book.”

My mouth pops open. I stare at him in disbelief. “You have not. You didn’t mention it back then. I said it was my favorite and you said—.”

“Because I hadn’t read it then. I read it after.”

My jaw is still hanging loose. “You read it for me?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“And?”

“It’s a good book,” he acquiesces.

“Serious question: when Beth died, did you cry?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve never cried in my life.”

“Not even as a baby?”

He throws me an impatient glare. I can’t help but laugh. The fact that is, I can’t picture Isaak as a baby. I can’t even picture him as a little boy. He’s the kind of man that feels like he descended from the sky, fully grown and completely in command of himself at all times.

I wonder if there are ever times he feels vulnerable. Lost. Lonely, like I do.

“So that’s what brought you out here to pout?” he asks. “You’re scared you’re not emulating the fictional heroine you look up to?”

I take a deep breath. “I feel like I’m losing myself, Isaak. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

It’s a big admission. I realize I’m putting myself in a vulnerable position by saying it out loud to him. But I need to talk to someone. And there’s something about him that makes me feel safe.