“A ‘door’ is a kindness, cousin. When the war comes—”
“A door?” Roman’s voice stays pleasant, conversational. “How poetic. Here is the reality, Dmitri, if she ever tries to walk through a door away from me, I will burn the building down around her. She doesn’t need an exit strategy.” He smiles, and it’s terrifying. “She has me.”
Dmitri closes the velvet box slowly. “You’re sure about this, Anya?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then I hope for your sake that Roman wins.” He looks at Roman. “Take care of her, cousin. Because if you fail—if Vadim gets his hands on her—I won’t offer twice.”
He leaves.
Roman grabs my hand—the one Dmitri kissed—and scrubs his thumb over my knuckles. He’s trying to scrub away the phantom heat of Dmitri’s mouth. Trying to sandblast his cousin’s touch off my skin until onlyheremains.
“You stepped between us.” His voice sounds raw. “You put your body in front of mine.”
“You were about to kill him in front of witnesses. Someone had to be smart.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Neither do I.” I hold his gaze. “But I did it anyway. That’s what partners do.”
His hand moves from my knuckles to my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse. Claiming.
“You refused him.” His voice drops. “Again. You showed the whole room you’re mine.”
“I showed the whole room that I chose you.” I press my hand over his heart and feel it pounding. “There’s a difference.”
His forehead drops to mine. “You’re going to destroy me,solnyshko.”
“Good. Then we’ll be even.”
* * *
The auction bell chimes.
Roman guides me to seats near the front, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck again, that possessive grip that tells everyone watching exactly who I belong to. Lots pass in a blur—a Kandinsky, a Malevich, prices climbing into millions—but I’m barely paying attention because Roman’s hand has now slipped under the white tablecloth and found my thigh.
His fingers trace slow circles on my inner leg, moving higher with each pass, and my breath catches.
“Roman.”
“Smile at the auctioneer, Anya. Keep your face neutral.”
His fingers slide higher. He finds the seam of my panties, the dampness soaking the silk.
“Roman, we’re in public—”
“I know.” His thumb presses against my clit through the fabric. “Keep a straight face,solnyshko. You’re soaking through your dress. If you gasp, they’ll know.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You’re going to come for me. Right here. In silence.”
“Lovers in Blue,” the auctioneer announces. “Marc Chagall, 1952. We’ll start the bidding at five million Euros.”
The painting appears, and I forget how to breathe—or maybe that’s Roman’s hand, which has slipped past my underwear and found exactly where I’m wet and aching for him.
Two figures falling through endless blue, tangled together, so consumed by each other that nothing else exists.
