His breath caressed my neck as he leaned closer. “Good. Let them. They will all know that you are mine.”
But I’m not!
My body betrayed me with a shiver that had nothing to do with cold. I hated how my skin pebbled at his touch, how my breath quickened when his fingers traced idle patterns against my hip. This was wrong. I should be repulsed. I should be fighting to get away.
Instead, I found myself melting against him.
Damn me.
“This sends a message, my little mountain flower,” Ivan continued, probably oblivious to what kind of hell fires he was starting inside me.
I tried for flippancy. “Oh, and what’s that?” =
Ivan shrugged. The movement against my body sent another rush of wild emotions through me. “They won’t touch what is mine.”
“I’m not yours.” There. I said it.
But…what was that sour taste on my tongue?
“A lie,” he breathed, answering both the spoken and unspoken statements. “You live under my rule now, Poppy. You sleep under my roof. To those who matter, you…are…mine.”
I stewed silently for several minutes, formulating then readjusting the dangerous claim that he had no right making.
“It’s time.” Ivan pushed me forward, and when I found my feet, he rose.
Lacing his fingers through mine, he led us behind the throne to a doorway that I hadn’t seen when we came up here. The silence was deafening as the door fell closed, blocking the music. Instead of going down, we ascended. Once again, I was grateful I didn’t wear the heels.
“This poker game.” Ivan cleared his throat, but it seemed like a cover for him to find the words. “There are powerful people there I’m hoping to…wow. No. Woo?”
“Woo,” I said, and without thinking I gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.
Ivan gave me a grin that was lopsided, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. It was impish. Boyish. As though we were sharing a secret. I couldn’t look away, but I had to so I didn’t trip.
“Thank you for telling me,” I added. “But I’m afraid I’m not good at cultivating business relationships.”
We stopped on a landing. Ivan pulled me around to face him.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He reached out and paused.
I gave him a small nod, and he pushed the lock of hair over my shoulder. “I didn’t deal with potential alliances in the mob.”
“You could do it,” he breathed, his hand lingering on my hair. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
I arched a questioning brow. “It’s not?”
His touch glided once more over my hair before he let it fall behind my back. “You’re here for me. Not them.”
A thrill shivered over my skin. The intensity of his focus was intoxicating. I was spared an answer as we continued to climb. At the top of the stairs, another door opened to a dimly lit corridor with plush carpeting that swallowed our footsteps. Several closed panels gave off eerie vibes, but Ivan pushed open another door, revealing a room bathed in dim golden light and wreathed in cigar smoke. The haze made my eyes water as I stepped through the threshold. This wasn’t just any back room—it was opulent, with dark, paneled walls and a massive circular table dominating the center, covered in rich green felt.
“Mladenov,” a deep voice called from across the room. “About time you joined us.”
I froze, my breath catching as I recognized the speaker. Jasper Kane—the action movie star whose face had been plastered across billboards for the last decade—sat at the table, shuffling chips between his fingers with practiced ease. Next to himwas a woman I’d seen in fashion magazines, her angular face impossible to mistake even through the smoke.
“Gentlemen. Ladies.” Ivan nodded, his hand still firmly gripping mine.
“You’re late.” A woman in her mid-sixties pushed back her perfectly coifed hair.
“I’m precisely on time, Senator,” Ivan replied coolly, taking a seat across from her. “The game doesn’t start until I arrive.”
