She doesn’t even blink. "I’m vetting everyone."
She turns toward me, her expression unreadable and entirely hers. I step behind her, gather her braid, and tug lightly so she faces me. "It must get lonely in that paranoid head of yours," I tease.
"It’s the best company," she says, running a fingertip along my collar. "Besides you, Marito."
Something warm settles under my ribs at that—dangerous, unwise, real. Before I can follow the urge to nuzzle her neck, my phone buzzes. I glance down and sigh, "Raf wants to meet."
She doesn’t pause. "Good. That’ll keep you occupied." Then, with all the softness of a blade sliding between ribs, "Don’t trust him."
I stare at her. "How do you two know each other?"
Her answering grin is pure trouble. "Ah. See? Paranoia. Very healthy. It keeps you on your toes."
"Oksana."
"Maybe I’ll tell you on our next anniversary."
I laugh, shaking my head. "We haven’t even had a honeymoon yet."
She tilts her head, considering. "We haven’t? I thoughtMexico?—"
"Only you would call Mexico a honeymoon," I deadpan.
She shrugs, amused and unrepentant. "We survived. We killed people. We had sex. Sounds romantic to me."
She moves past me, and I catch her wrist gently, turning her back. "When this is over," I murmur, "I’ll take you to Italy."
She lights up, sharp, hungry, alive. "Will you have gladiators fight for me?"
I stare at her, struck stupid for a second. That’s the thing about Oksana, she’s smiling, but she means every word.
"Such bloodthirst," I murmur.
She leans in, brushing her lips against mine, a kiss that tastes like danger and commitment in equal measure. "You married it."
My hand finds the small of her back, careful of her stitches. Soon they’ll be gone. Soon she’ll pretend she was never injured at all. Soon she’ll be unstoppable again. God help anyone who stands between us and what we’re about to tear down.
I watch her move toward the suitcase she insisted on packing at her place yesterday, pulling it open.
"You're going to be late," I tease, leaning against the doorframe, working the last buttons on my shirt, then sliding on the tie.
She doesn’t answer, just sends me one of her… looks.
I do have a request. "Check on Nico; he should be?—"
"I won’t be seeing him," she cuts in. "We're not meeting at the house. But I’ll tell Grigori to have Nico call you."
I roll my eyes. "How considerate of the man who is holding my brother captive."
She smirks. "You Italians take everything so personally and make it so dramatic. He's keeping him safe."
She's right. I know she is, but the last thing I want is to feel… indebted or grateful towards the Russian Bratva bastard. I'm about to respond, but she’s already turning away from me, lifting her braid, twisting it up. Then she pulls a mesh cap over it and settles a blonde wig on top. I blink.
"Shit," I breathe. "You’re even more gorgeous as a blonde."
She's a goddam goddess.
"So I’ve been told." There is no flaunting in her voice or posture. She assesses herself like she does everyone and everything else: dispassionately and objectively. Which makes her even more dangerous because she knows and accepts not only her strengths but also her weaknesses.
