Natasha turned toward me, stars clinging to her eyes despite the smoggy night sky above. I nodded to her ride to JFK. Her ride away from me.
I blocked her path. “He can wait.”
A slow smile crept across her face.
“You sure?” she whispered, already stepping into me. “We aren’t wearing hoodies, sunglasses.” She scrutinized the surrounding crowd. The foot traffic hadn’t slowed. Too late to give a damn about famous people or heiresses.
I didn’t answer with words. I wrapped my arms around Natasha’s waist and kissed her like I was starving. Like I hadn’t already memorized the curve of her lips and the gasp that always tumbled from her throat the second my hand anchored the small of her back. Kissed her like this would wreck me.
I built this kiss on every missed chance and every time I’d almost slipped and said I loved her. My hand slid up her spine, fingers tangling in her hair, while her hands gripped the collar of my blazer like she wasn’t ready to let go either.
When she tilted her head and kissed me back harder, mouths clashing, breath quickening, I knew I’d never get enough. Not in this lifetime.
“Lach …” she breathed against my lips, eyes fluttering open.
I kissed her once more. Soft. A promise.
And that was when it happened.
A man surged forward from the crowd and yanked Natasha’s bag straight off her shoulder.
She gasped. “Hey!”
I took off. The man was wiry, sloppy, zigzagging past walkers, dodging past vendors, barreling down a narrow lane that led straight into a dead-end alley.
Idiot.
I was faster.
Guess I wasn’t too much smarter for wanting a taste of Natasha. Should’ve kissed her in the lobby.
I caught the guy by the hoodie. Yanked him back. Slammed him against a brick wall near a hot dog stand. He snarled, swinging a punch at me. I ducked. Drove my fist into his gut. He wheezed. Tried to recover.
Too slow.
Another jab to the jaw sent him crumpling to the concrete, his knees hitting hard. He looked up, dazed and bleeding.
I crouched and gripped him by the hair. “You touch her again,” I growled, “you won’t have hands to pickpocket.”
Then I heard it.
The familiar, soul-souring click of camera shutters.
“Lach MacKenzie!”
“Is that Natasha Resnova?”
“Together?”
I turned, blinking into the wall of flashing lights. Paparazzi. Phones. A growing crowd. Natasha maneuvered the crowd, picked up her bag, and clutched it close. Her shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Eyes … fierce.
Every bit the Bratva princess, she stared at me—no words. Just a thousand emotions flickering behind her gaze. Fear, fury, hurt. Gratitude.
I stepped toward her. The damage was done. But this wasn’t just a viral moment. Not just a bad headline.
Sponsorships? I could handle those. The press? My agent would spin the focus on what the man had done. The league might fine me or bench me.
But Vassili?
