“And if Dante really is alive?”
Alaric stares at the photographs for a long moment before answering. “Then we deal with that too. Whatever it takes.”
As we prepare to leave Vegas, I can’t shake the feeling that everything we’ve built together is about to be tested in ways we never imagined. The Russians want partnership or war. Marco ismissing under suspicious circumstances. And somewhere in the shadows, either a ghost is walking or someone is playing a game that could destroy us all.
The desert wind carries the scent of sage and uncertainty as we walk toward our waiting car, carrying secrets that could change everything.
38
ALARIC
Watchingmy pregnant wife negotiate with Russian criminals is doing dangerous things to my self-control.
The meeting with Boris ended an hour ago, but I can’t stop thinking about how Kasimira looked across that conference table. Poised, intelligent, absolutely fearless. Her pregnancy is starting to show more obviously now, the gentle curve of her belly visible even in professional clothes.
Every man in that room knew she was carrying my child. Every single one of them was looking at her and thinking about what we do together in private.
The thought makes me want to claim her all over again.
“You’re quiet,” she observes as we enter our Vegas suite.
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how every Russian in that room was undressing you with their eyes.”
She pauses in removing her earrings, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Were they?”
“Boris couldn’t stop staring. His lieutenant kept finding excuses to look at your legs. Even the translator was sneaking glances at your chest.”
“Jealous?”
“Territorial.”
The distinction makes her smile. “What’s the difference?”
“Jealous men sulk. Territorial men take action.”
I approach from behind, my hands settling on her hips. The black dress she wore to the meeting hugs her curves perfectly, showing off the changes pregnancy has brought to her body.
“What kind of action?” she asks, her voice dropping to that husky tone that drives me wild.
“The kind that reminds you exactly who you belong to.”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Don’t you?”
My hands slide up her sides, fingers tracing the outline of her ribs, the swell of her breasts. Her breath catches as I cup them through the fabric, thumbs brushing over nipples that have become exquisitely sensitive.
“Tell me you don’t belong to me,” I challenge, mouth against her ear.
“I…”
“Tell me these aren’t mine.” I squeeze gently, making her gasp. “Tell me this isn’t mine.” One hand drops to span her growing belly.
“Alaric…”
