But she does notice, she always does. She searches my face. “What business?”
“Just a meeting with Angelo,” I say casually. “Nothing important.”
“Angelo,”she repeats, clearly unconvinced. “The brother you said you werefinewith?”
“We’re working on our relationship,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Just like you wanted me to.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m canceling my plans with Luna.”
“Dea…”
“I am, you’re not allowed to leave the house today.”
I laugh. It bursts out of me, her defiant little face, frown between her brows, telling me—nodemandingI don’t leave the house.
“Well, Dea, my meeting with Angelo isn’t until tomorrow so sure I will stay inside today.”
Her mouth opens then closes, she goes to push off of my lap, but I keep her straddling me.
“No, no, you can’t be mad, Dea. You demanded I stay in today, and I’m obeying.”
“Fine,” she smirks shifting herself slightly, her hands reaching for the hem of my shirt, “then we’ll have to find something to do with all this time.”
Her hands slip under my shirt, cool against my warm skin. I don’t stop her, watching those gorgeous eyes darken as she explores. Doesn’t matter how often I’ve felt her touch it still sets me on fire.
“Santo,” she whispers, leaning in to press her lips to my jaw. “What are you and Angelo really up to?”
I chuckle, tilting my head to give her better access. “Trying to seduce information out of me, Dea?”
“Is it working?” She nips at my earlobe, and I growl, my hands tightening on her hips.
“Not a chance.” I flip her suddenly, laying her back against the couch cushions. Her hair fans out beneath her, golden against the dark fabric. “But I appreciate the effort.”
She pouts up at me, but there’s heat in her gaze. “One day, your resolvewillbreak.”
“Never.” I lower my head, capturing her lips in a kiss that quickly deepens. My hand slides beneath her sweater, finding the warm skin of her stomach. She arches into my touch.
“Santo,” she breathes against my mouth. “The cameras...”
“Are being monitored by men who know better than to watch,” I murmur, my lips trailing down her neck. “Besides, I own the footage.”
She gasps, half outrage, half desire, and shoves at my chest.
I don’t budge.
“You’re impossible,” she breathes.
“And you’re irresistible,” I counter, sliding my hand higher. My palm settles beneath her ribs, where she’s still all delicate lines and soft skin. Her sweater lifts with the motion, revealing the narrow slope of her stomach—those gentle, fragile-looking contours she used to be so insecure about.
She's still small, thin, tiny, all the words she didn’t like. She’s still unmistakably Vasilisa.
But she’s also stronger now, more grounded in herself, more certain of her place; in my life, in this family, in her own skin.
My thumb traces the subtle dip of her waist, reverent. “Every part of you,” I murmur, “was made for my hands.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt and she pulls me back down to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Our mouths meet again; hotter now, hungrier. Her lips part, tongue teasing mine, and I groan low in my throat, rolling my hips into hers.
