Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(58)

His face and his heart are closed. Shielded. He does not trust me. I don’t trust him either, but we don’t need trust to destroy ourselves.

“I was looking for you.” I tap my toes against the cold floor, wishing I could create a sinkhole to escape his scrutiny.

The music plays on, the only sound between us. The tune is classical and beautiful and not something I would expect from Nikolai. But then again, he has proven me to be a fool when it comes to my expectations.

He makes the first move, stalking me like a jungle cat.

“Why would you be looking for me?” He forces my chin up with his hand. “Have you come to make another declaration of your love for Dante? Or perhaps a worthless plea to return home to your loving father?”

His words are laced with undisguised bitterness, and a ray of hope shines brightly inside of me.

“I’ve come to do neither,” I tell him. “I’ve come because …”

I can’t say the words. I’m not ready to admit how impoverished I feel without him. I’m definitely not ready to confess that I purged my depraved needs by thinking of him while I touch myself.

I cave into myself and look up at him. My values have taught me that it’s not my place to be forward with a man. But right now, it’s the only thing I want to do. When I reach up with an unsteady hand, he doesn’t move. He’s rigid and unresponsive, but the cold war fractures when my fingertips touch his face.

His eyes fall shut, and he narrows the distance between us by dragging me against his body. His engorged cock lays heavy against my belly, already ripe with want. My lips find his, and I’m ready to let myself be lost in his skin. But there is still one thought plaguing my mind.

“Have you been with others?”

Nikolai locks me in his arms to prevent me from pulling away. His eyes are softer than they were only a minute ago, but not any less beautiful.

“Would it matter?” He toys with the strap of my silk chemise. “I thought you were merely biding your time until your return home.”

“It does matter.” My heart pulses wildly. “I want your everything while I have it. Wait until I’m gone, and then you can—”

“Nakya.” He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, forcing my mouth open. The ensuing kiss is violent and possessive, but entirely too short.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he breathes. “Why would I when I have you?”

His words are genuine, but I still have my doubts. And I’m certain he is tired of giving me assurances he has no need to give. He could take me either way. He could do whatever he likes. His loyalty is not owed to me. But regardless, it’s what I see in his eyes when he whispers his next words.

“You gave yourself to me, my sweet. And it is not a difficult task to give you my loyalty in return. I have no reason to lie when I tell you that you have poisoned me against any other woman.”

“So keep me then,” I plead. “Keep me and make me yours, Nika. Carve your star into my skin and never let me go.”

He kisses me, and it isn’t a promise, but an admission. He wants to keep me, but he won’t make a promise he’ll be forced to break. As much as I need those words right now, I need him more.

We come together in a slow burn. Hot, sticky hands undress each other and explore the canvases of our bodies. He cups me between my legs and kisses my throat. “Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours.”

He groans and dips his fingers inside me, toying with me while he sucks on the flesh above my collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”

He wants it. Needs it. He’s been begging for it. And I’m done playing games.

“I’m yours.”

Our naked bodies collide and tumble to the floor. He enters me with a sigh, and I squeeze around him. He’s on top of me and inside me, fucking me drunkenly as he struggles to maintain the connection between our eyes. But he isn’t just fucking me this time.

He’s making love.

I nurture his affections, peppering him with kisses. Whispering words meant only for his ears. I beg him never to stop. I beg him over and over to keep me. He begs me over and over to tell me again that I’m his.

We shatter, and we nap, and we wake up, only to do it all over again.





My fingers hover centimeters away from the painting, breath absent from my lungs. It’s beautiful and horrific. A violation. An obsession. An open window to my psyche. And I can’t look away.

Nikolai wipes away a tear I didn’t even realize I’d shed before he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck from behind. “Tell me what you are thinking, zvezda.”

“Why?” I whisper.

Why did he choose to paint the worst moment of my life? And how did he get inside my head? How did he know me so intimately at that moment? The shattering loss that rendered me immobile. The deep, violent despair. Every emotion is so tangible that it feels more like a memory than a painting. Fall from Grace, he calls it.

“How could I not?” he answers. “It’s not every day that you witness the fall of an angel.”

I sob, and he holds me. It’s ridiculous that I’m so emotional over a piece of art, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the realization that, from the beginning, he has seen me. He has known me.

The truth is painted on as many canvases as I can see. Each one is different, but in many ways, they are the same. They are all me.