For a moment, all I hear is the storm. Then he strides toward me, boots splashing through mud. I take an involuntary step back, heart racing, but he keeps coming until the rain is between us like smoke.
He grips my elbow—not harshly, but with authority—and steers me toward the door. “You don’t give orders here.”
“Maybe someone should,” I snap. “You’re soaked!”
“Concerned for me?”
“Concerned for common sense! How am I going to explain to yourempireif the Bratva Bear dies of pneumonia?”
He ushers me inside, slams the door, and the silence afterward hums like thunder. The air between us feels charged, hot despite the chill. He doesn’t acknowledge what I just admitted to knowing: exactly who he is.
Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards. He pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time, each motion precise.
“Are you always this difficult?”
“Only when men treat me like I’m made of glass.”
His eyes narrow. “Glass breaks. You don’t. But you’re the only assistant who has ever improved my empire, strengthened it. If I tell you to stay out of the storm, you obey.”
“I don’t need you to play the hero.”
He moves closer, every inch deliberate. “Who said I was your hero?”
The words graze my ear, low enough to make me shiver. There’s something familiar about them that goes right to my gut, and then my core, a rumble of desire I haven’t felt in years settling there.
I turn, and my back brushes the table. He’s right there, close enough that I can see a faint scar on his jaw, and the glint of that strange tooth when he speaks. His wet shirt clings to his chest, buttons half undone, and I’m suddenly aware of every breath I take.
“Then what are you?” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “The warning you didn’t listen to.”
Something in me tilts. My pulse climbs into my throat. This man terrifies me. He fascinates me. I want to step away, but I don’t.
He reaches past me to set his gloves on the table, and the brush of his sleeve against my arm is enough to short-circuit every logical thought I’ve ever had.
“You can call me Makari.” The words are unexpected. My brows furrow, catching the hint of self-consciousness in them. As if I might reject the suggestion.
“I… you’re my boss.” My lashes are wet silk darkened by a smattering of raindrops that roll down my chest and gather between my breasts.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re finally admitting just what I do to you.”
I laugh, breathless. “You really think everything’s about you.”
“No,” he says softly. “Just this.”
And then he kisses me.
What I worried might be fear fizzles into something more dangerous as his mouth covers mine, claiming me. He’s not gentle, hands finding my waist and pulling me to him as mine fist in his shirt. The taste of rain and peppermint fills my mouth, waking up my senses.
For one wild heartbeat, I let go.
Then it hits me—the scent of him, that same blend of wood and citrus I can’t name. Memory flashes: a masked man, a vault, hands on my hips, a voice growling.Mine.
I freeze.
