“So you’re going to marry Jenica then,” he says.
I pop him again. “Of course not.”
Mav swings and misses. “Why not? Hot piece of ass you can parade in front of her cousin. Meanwhile, you becomepakhanand tell your dad to back up. Sounds like a silver platter to me.”
“I’m not marrying a Chadovich for an olive branch as flimsy as my love for a woman I hardly know.” I swing and hit.
“‘Love’, huh?” He rolls with my punch, clearly feeling it but too stubborn to call it quits. “Didn’t know you were this much of a softy.”
And for that, I hit him again. This time, I draw blood. “It’s about doing what I want and not what I’m told to do. I don’t listen to orders—I fuckinggivethem.”
“Tell that to your watch,” he sniffs, whipping blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist. “It’s ticking, you know. If you’re not going to marry a woman you don’t love, you better find one you do. And fast.”
I want to hit him again. But I don’t. Instead, I just duck out of the ring and make my way to the door, done with the conversation and the fight and everything else.
I know I am in a tight spot. I don’t need Maverick to remind me of that. I don’t need anyone to remind me of that.
I head home—to the estate, not the penthouse—gritting my teeth the whole way. It’s one thing for my dad to throw us to the wolves on this new El Paso deal. The underbelly of my life is about to get a whole lot hotter with these trucks running cross-country loaded to the fucking brim. I’m going to have to grow eyes on the back of my goddamn head.
But I’ve dealt with runs before. And he is right about one thing—it will give us an edge on the Chadovichs. It’ll give me an edge over Tristan.
I’m not the only one in line to be apakhan. Jenica doesn’t have any siblings, no heir to the Bratva throne as it were, which means Tristan’s been pulling the strings with Dmitry Chadovich for years. Ever since his own dad died and Dmitry took him as his own.
Personally, I think it has less to do with love than a need for someone to carry on his name. Blood runs thick in the Bratva, whether it’s for loyalty or through bullet holes.
But that’s not what’s got me gripping the steering wheel and I know it. It’sher. Amara is seeping into my thoughts. The way she looked in the dress today, even though I was pissed she was wearing it at work.
I was pissed because I should be the only man—the only person—who gets to see her in that dress. Fucking ever. Period.
It hits me that I have pressure coming in from all sides right now. Like levies broken by hurricane strength winds, and now the water is coming in hot. Everyone’s eyes are on me. And because of not one, but now two public kisses, those eyes are waiting for our next move. If I am going to convince anyone of anything, the heat is going to need to turn up a notch.
Which means one thing. It’s something that has my jaw locked, my hands turning white on the steering wheel, and my pants fucking tight.
I need to make good on that clause in our contract.
20
AMARA
Ransome barges into his office before I have his coffee ready.
It’s still in the white, paper coffee cup, and not his matte black mug. I didn’t even see him coming. And I definitely didn’t see what was coming next.
He’s like a bat out of hell. Before I can exchange the disposable cup for the ceramic one, he grabs me, pulling me against him so hard the coffee sloshes.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I demand. “You almost spilled?—”
Ransome uses his free hand to knock the cup clean out of my hand. It sails to the floor in a steaming splash. I glance over at it, then back at him, fury burning in my veins.
“What are you doing?”
No sooner do the words leave my lips than his mouth is covering mine.
At first, I keep my mouth shut. But he works his jaw nips my lip, popping my lips open before his tongue finds mine. For a split second I soften into it, the whirlwind of it all seemingly lifting me off my feet, my head spinning.
But then I grasp reality.
I press my palms to his chest and shove him back. “What the hell are you doing?!”
