Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(38)

“I hated you for doing it. It was during our war with the Petrov gang. They were going to kill me, and you hurled yourself at Roman Petrov like a wild animal. And then the gun went off, and when I saw you crumple over, my whole life dissolved before my eyes. We were so frightened for you, Yuri and I. We took you to the hospital in their territory—it couldn’t be helped. We guarded you until we could move you. We didn’t think any of us would survive.”

He pushes his face to my belly. I feel his mind, feel his heart. He’s lost all sense of himself now. My hands go to his hair.

He clutches the backs of my thighs through my slip. “We were so frightened for you. Pityr kidnapped a doctor to give a second opinion, so crazy. You were sick for so long afterwards, but we got you back. You came back to us.”

My belly seems to move of its own accord, too much alive. He closes his eyes and kisses me again through the fabric, nearer to my belly button. My pelvis feels floaty. I don’t want him to stop.

He squeezes the backs of my thighs, fingers biting into the thin cotton. A glowy good feeling rolls up between my legs as he turns his face up, kneading my thighs ever so slightly.

I tighten my fists in his hair. I must push him off. I’ll push him off soon.

He turns his face back to my belly and tips his head down so that his mouth is level with my sex, but he doesn’t touch me. “You always loved it when I talked here, breathed here. You loved to feel the close space between us. You always loved the space where nothing and everything happens—the space between, you called it. You were fascinated with this.”

I close my eyes, aware of the heat from his mouth. Aware also of the answering heat from between my legs.

“You loved when I almost kissed you there,” he says. “When I almost touched you. Almost licked you. You loved that. I had only to touch you here to end you.”

He touches the fabric between my legs. The fabric doesn’t connect to any part of my body, just to the space between my legs.

I nearly faint with the feeling. Because now he must kiss me there.

I push him away. “I don’t play your games anymore.”

He rolls back on his heels, gazing up, beautiful eyes warm and sparkling. “You would feel everything. So sensitive. The game would make you feel everything.”

I killed a person. I can’t let him make me feel good. “Leave me.”

He rises to his feet. “One touch of my finger and you’d come apart screaming…”

I gather my garments. “Look what you did. It’ll take hours to sew!”

“You’re not sewing it. This costume isn’t for you.” He rips the robe and shift from my hands and pulls my scarf from my head and storms off. I chase after him. “Viktor, please!”

Down the stairs he goes.

“Viktor!”

He stalks through the living room to the fireplace, where embers still glow. He tosses it in. I dart after it, but he grabs me by the arm, fingers digging into my flesh. With his free hand he takes a poker and shoves at the burning fabric, shoving it around over the embers. I watch in despair as my garments go up in flames.

He lets me go.

I fall to my knees in front of the fireplace, despairing.

“There’s a closet full of clothes for you up there. Beautiful clothes you once loved. You’ll wear those. You’ll wear the clothes of Tanechka from now on.”





Chapter Fourteen




Viktor


She tromps down the stairs the next morning in a T-shirt and jeans, bright hair flowing over her shoulders. The breath goes out of me. “Lisichka.”

She continues toward me, big black boots clomping. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in the serge. You can’t stop me from it.”

I smile. She chose those clothes for a breakout, of course.

We worked together too long for me not to understand her the way a sailor understands the ocean.

Does she know how obvious it is? She’ll pull a knit cap over her head and tuck in her hair as soon as I’m gone. Then she’ll don a black jacket filled with whatever rope she can find. Other supplies. The old Tanechka would carve up the treads of the boots for better gripping. I would give anything to go with her, to be allies again. United.

I wish I didn’t have to go, but I do.

On my way out, I stop Pityr, one of the guys I have guarding the street. He’s on edge. I clap him on the back. “Blatnye,” I say.

He’s not feeling so blatnye, so badass. He addresses me in Russian. “Bloody Lazarus’s patsani just passed by. Three cars.” He lifts his phone. “Everybody’s been texting about it.”

I clench my jaw. “What was your impression?”

“They don’t know about your place,” he says, grasping the direction of my thoughts. “They’ve been crawling up and down every street, daring us to engage. Suggesting that this is their town. A threat. Show of force. They’ll do something here soon, I think. He’s exerting power. A new leader.”

“Wanting to engage. Start something,” I say.

“I don’t know why they haven’t already,” he says. “Perhaps he wants to keep his cops happy.” He uses the word mussor—“garbage”—but he really means cops.

“Bloody Lazarus doesn’t care about keeping anybody happy. Aleksio says it’s why he’ll be easy to take down.”