Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (86)

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” I say firmly. “Camila’s not suited for this life. Can you imagine her as a Bratva wife? She’d be miserable.”

Bogdan just smiles secretively.

“What?” I demand.

“I don’t know where you get off thinking she wouldn’t cut it in this life. She gives as good as she gets. Even Lachlan thought so.”

“So he said.”

“She’s more than a match for you.”

My body tenses instantly as I remember the fight we’d had only hours ago. I’m still fighting an erection because of the fucking memory. She’d been so damn confident, so… in command of herself.

Even when she’d been pressed up against that wall, completely at my mercy, she had fought back. She’d held her own. And it was enough to nearly make me explode in her hand right then and there.

Except that I refused to concede any kind of defeat. Give her the upper hand? Let her think she could manipulate me in any way?

No. That, I cannot do.

So I’d said the words I suspected would hit close to home: You’re much too good at manipulating the men around you.

And it worked. Never mind that I’d felt like a fucking monstrous asshole afterwards.

“Stop,” I tell Bogdan. “This is business. Having Camila around is necessary with Maxim out there. When that changes, she can go.”

“Bullshit. You’re just going to let her walk away once Maxim is dealt with?”

“I’ll give her the choice.”

Bogdan narrows his eyes at me. “How noble. That’s a rigged game, brother. You know she won’t leave you.”

“Must be nice to have the world at your feet.”

“Comes with the territory. I have a lot, and as much to lose.”

“You won’t lose it.”

“No,” I agree. “I won’t. Prepare everything for the trip. We leave tonight.”

Bogdan sighs and gives me a mocking salute. “Got it, boss. What do I tell Mama?”

“That I’m going to Scotland,” I say dismissively. “The fuck do I care?”

“I think she’d like to talk to you, Isaak.”

“Well, that’s fucking tough. I have shit to do and a trip to get ready for. I’ll need you to take charge while I’m away.”

“How long will that be for?”

“For as long as I want,” I reply. “Haven’t decided yet.”

He doesn’t press me for more details. Just gives me a nod and gets to his feet. I do the same and we leave my office together and part ways on the steps.

Bogdan heads downstairs to send instructions for the jet to be readied. I walk upstairs to Camila’s room.

I know I’m not allowing for much time for things to simmer before speaking to her, but if I want to leave tonight, there’s no postponing this.

And there’s no way I’m leaving her behind. I know she’ll most likely be safe here, but the possessive part of me can’t let go. It makes me question that confident claim I’d made to Bogdan only moments ago.

If she asked to be let go, would I be able to say yes?

I walk into her room without knocking. She jumps off the armchair by the window. Her eyes are red and her face looks puffy. It’s as though she’s been crying into a pillow for the last half an hour. But I can tell from her tired eyes that she’s all cried out now. There’s nothing left.

“I want to be alone,” she says coldly.

It’s a defense mechanism. She doesn’t want me to see how distraught she is right now. Too fucking late for that. How can I leave now? How can I pretend?

“We’re going to Scotland tonight,” I tell her, unable to make my tone any less commanding than it always is. “Pack a bag.”

She shakes her head fiercely. “No.”

“It wasn’t a question, Camila.”

“Don’t act like I’m the one being difficult. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Why? Because I hurt your feelings?”

She cringes back, frowning at my words. She’s not the type of woman who wants pity. I respect that more than she could ever know.

“No, because you’re a controlling monster and I’d rather not be around you right now.”

I stalk one step closer to her, taking in her sweet, floral scent. It’s like a drug to me.

“You’re my wife,” I tell her. “And you will go where I want, and do as I say.”

“Is that really the kind of relationship you want?” she asks quietly. “I’m not one of your little lackeys, you know.”

“You’re not really my wife either, though, are you?”

She turns her face before the second wave of hurt gives her away. But her body does that well enough on its own. She slumps forward, as though she’s caving in on herself.

“You know, I’ve been an asshole quite a lot in my life,” I tell her.

She glances towards me. “I can sure as hell believe that.”

I smirk. “You’re the first person that’s ever made me feel bad about it.”

She’s definitely not expecting that, because she smiles instantly, unable to hold it in. “Is that right?”