"Oh fuck," she whispers.
The room explodes into motion.
Valentin's men draw weapons. My men move to intercept. Slav steps in front of me, hand already reaching for the gun at his hip.
"Who the fuck is she?" Valentin snarls, his earlier nervousness replaced by the kind of panic that gets people killed.
One of his men raises his weapon, finger already on the trigger.
"Kill her," Valentin snaps. "Now. Before she—"
I'm moving before I finish the thought.
Three long strides and I'm in front of her, my body between her and the guns, my hand already reaching for her face. She flinches, but I don't give her time to pull away.
I grab her jaw, tilt her face up, and crash my mouth against hers.
She goes rigid. Shocked. Terrified.
I don't care.
"She's my wife," I say against her lips, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Then I kiss her harder, my other hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her in place. Her hands come up between us, palms pressed against my chest, but she doesn't push me away.
I break the kiss just enough to whisper, my lips still brushing hers, my voice low and deadly calm.
"Play along, or you die."
Florrie
Play along, or you die.
The words barely register through the roaring in my ears. Everything is happening too fast. The guns, the shouting, the way this stranger's mouth is pressed against mine like he owns me.
His hand is still on the back of my neck, fingers tangled in my hair, holding me in place with a grip that's both warmly possessive and icily terrifying. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb pressed just under my chin, forcing me to stay tilted up toward him.
I can't breathe.
Or maybe I'm breathing too fast.
His lips move against mine again, softer this time, and I realize with a jolt that he's still kissing me. Not hard like before, but still very deliberately. Like he's trying to sell this to the room full of armed men who were about to…
Oh god.
They were going to kill me.
My knees go weak, and his arm bands around my waist immediately, hauling me against his solid, warm chest. The expensive fabric of his shirt is smooth under my palms, and I'm very aware that I'm still touching him, that my hands are splayedacross his chest like I'm holding on instead of trying to push away.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my mouth, so quiet I almost miss it.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are ice. Pale grey, cold and calculating, the kind of eyes that see everything and give nothing away. They're beautiful in a way that makes my stomach twist, and when they lock on mine, I forget how to think.
He's handsome. Devastatingly so. Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looks like it takes no effort at all. He is tall enough that I have to crane my neck even in heels, and built like someone who could withstand a hurricane.
Nothing like Brad.
