Dima looks up once. Blinks. No expression. I can’t tell if he’s calculating the threat level… or just wondering what’s for lunch.
“Better?” I ask, trying for casual and landing somewhere between HR voice and mild cardiac episode.
Anton doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps staring. Eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to decide whether I’m a problem to solve or a habit he can’t kick.
“Much better,” he says finally—low, rough. Like the words cost him something.
The heat of it slides right under my skin.
My spine straightens. My palms sweat. My brain short-circuits in a way that hasnothingto do with danger andeverythingto do with the way his gaze lingers at my waist before dragging back up to my throat.
The attention makes me uncomfortable.
Not just because four dangerous men are looking at me like I’m… well, like I’m something worth looking at. But because Anton’s not justseeingme. He’s studying. Deciding something. And whatever it is, it’s got my heart doing stupid gymnastics in my chest.
22
Anton
Idon’t like how good she looks.
Pizdets!The fact that I’m noticing pisses me off more than it should.
She’s prettier than she was this morning, sprawled unconscious on my couch in blood-stained clothes. She must’ve splashed water on her face, maybe rinsed out her mouth. Her skin looks fresher, scrubbed clean. Her hair’s still damp at the ends, no longer a tangled mess, and she’s pushed it back, so it falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
My gaze drags down before I can stop it: jaw, neck, the line of her collarbone.
My balls tighten, like my body’s a second too slow catching up to the fact that I’m staring.
Maybe it’s the way that sweater hugs her waist and pushes her tits up, making her look like she actually has a figure instead of drowning in my oversized shirt. Maybe it’s that the clothes fit her as if they were made for her body, transforming her from a terrified bank clerk into something that belongs in my world.
Her eyes are still glassy, lashes clumped together, and it pisses me off that the vulnerability makes me want to touch her face.
She catches me staring and shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pushes her breasts higher, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
Lev settles into the chair beside me, close enough that I can smell the cigarettes on his jacket. He’s watching me watch her, and when I glance sideways, the bastard has the audacity to smirk.
“Blyat,” I mutter under my breath.
“Problem,bratishka?” Lev asks, voice all innocence, while his eyes slide back to Mary like she’s a piece of art he’s appraising.
Then he does it: lets out a low whistle that sounds like every construction worker catcall ever made. The kind of sound that makes women clutch their purses tighter and cross streets.
Mary’s face flushes red. She tugs the sweater down, trying to cover more of herself, which only makes the fabric stretch tighter across her chest.
Lev grins wider, enjoying both the view and my barely controlled reaction to it.
The urge to put a bullet between his eyes hits me like a sucker punch to the gut, which is fucking ridiculous because I shouldn’t give a shit who looks at her. She’s an asset. A means to an end.
But watching Lev eye-fuck her like she’s dessert and he’s been on a diet for months makes my trigger finger itch.
Boris looks smug as hell, like he just won some kind of makeover contest. “Told you they’d fit.”
“Perfect fucking fit,” Lev adds, still grinning. “Very… comprehensive shopping, Boris.”
Suka, I need this bastard out of my sight before I do something that compromises the operation.
“Lev,” I bark. “Go check if the food’s here.”
