On the other end of the call, I hear a sound catch in his throat, because he knows what I was thinking about.
About what it would be like if he were here, laying me out across this desk to test how fast he could strip off the boots and skirt. The flimsy tights wouldn’t last a second against his hands.
"Stop," he says, and I can't help but laugh.
I know if he were here, he'd see my flushed cheeks.
"Me? But I didn't do anything," I say in an innocent tone, but my mind flies back to his hands and how he could use them on me. In this room.
"Yes, you did. You forget I know your mind better than you do, baby, so if you don't want to see me leaving a trail of blood through the entire house just to get to you, I suggest you listen and come back this second. To me."
"To you," I whisper.
And with that, I hang up and realize I haven't stopped smiling this whole time. Somehow, this man takes even my worst day and turns it into a smile. And somewhere, those whispers I learned to ignore long ago grow louder, telling me he's mine.
Chapter 35
Damien
It’s been a week since the bastard tried to put a bullet in me at my own wedding, and the wound's finally starting to close. Time to drag myself out of bed and handle business.
This is my first day leaving the house, but I've got too much shit piling up to put it off any longer.
Even if leaving means walking away from the sight of Roxanne pressed against me every morning, her body molded to mine in a way that's had me biting through my lip more than once. I don't know how much longer I can keep my hands to myself with her that close.
Every goddamn morning, I wake up hard as steel against her, and this woman, who I swear exists purely to drive me insane, chooses those exact moments to shift and squirm in her sleep. I've had to clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut, dig my nails into my palms. One morning I actually bit down on that spot between her shoulder and neck just to get her to stop moving.
Because I was about two seconds from losing it like some horny teenager, and all from basic skin contact.
But right now I need to deal with the Council members breathing down my neck. Ever since that piece of shit tried to take me out, whispers have been spreading about whether I'm still fit to lead. Whether I still deserve their votes.
Sending each of them a piece of the soldier my dear mother dispatched—skin charred black thanks to Roxanne's creative initiative—shut them up for a while. But only for a while.
Vasili and I walk into the Red Poppy and head straight to my office, where five Council members wait. The Chicago contingent. Two more are in New York, the rest in Poland.
"Gentlemen." I shrug off my leather jacket and toss it over the desk chair.
"Good to see that bullet didn't keep you down long," Babicz says, and I remember exactly what he said to my wife. How his eyes crawled over her neckline.
"Takes more than that to put me out of commission."
My smile tells him I haven't forgotten a damn thing. Not his words to Roxanne. Not where his gaze wandered. But I need his vote first. After that, I'll make sure those wandering eyes never wander again.
"You planning to do something about Warsaw?" Vad asks. One of the members who's backed me before.
"Already sent my message." The smile that crosses my face makes it crystal clear what that message contained.
I've been stuck in bed, but my men haven't. Marzena's got eyes and ears in the States, same as I've got in Poland, so it was just a matter of smoking out the rats from their hiding spots.
Took a few days, but we found the first one. The guy who handled deliveries to the house. Now he's ten feet under in acemetery plot while the skin from his back makes its way to dear old Mom. A little reminder of what happens when you piss me off.
"What's the status of the South African weapons shipment?" another associate asks.
This deal's the biggest we've ever run over this kind of distance, and everyone's wound tight. Not just because of the money tied up in those vessels, but because of every checkpoint, every hand those containers pass through before reaching their destination.
More stops mean more opportunities for things to go sideways.
Roman's changed the route four times, swapped out personnel twice, and he's still not satisfied. The shipment's supposed to hit Chicago in a few weeks, and until then, everyone's walking on glass.
