But there’s an unmistakable strain that I can pick up. Even before I see that his knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.
“Home,” I say.
His jaw tightens and I know that it’s not the answer he wanted to hear. But there’s no fucking way I’m going to go with him, not after what just happened. Not after seeing him kill. And certainly not after the kiss.
“It’s not safe.”
“Then why even offer me a choice?”
He remains silent, and for a moment, I’m afraid I might’ve said something that crossed a line. Slowly, a smile ghosts on his lips, and when he glances at me briefly, my stomach flips when I see the fire burning in them.
“Because you have enemies now.” He pauses for a moment. “Ms. Creminelli.”
“The only enemy I have is you,” I reply. “The least you can do is call me by my real name.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. Hate that he’s seeing me like this—mascara smeared, hair tangled, and unable to hide how I’m still trembling like a leaf caught in an updraft.
“Have it your way, Ms. Farnassi.” His jaw clenches. “Home it is.”
Uncomfortable silence returns and this time, he keeps looking ahead while driving. Passing streetlights dance around his face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones. Even now, I can see the question forming behind his eyes about why I’m so desperate to go home.
He probably thinks it’s because I’m just rattled by the kiss and the kidnapping attempt. Let him. I have no reason to let him find out more about me than he already has.
Then, he takes the exit towards my home, and something in my chest loosens just a fraction.
When the carpulls up to my building, Slava steps out of the car and walks over and opens my door. Then, he extends his hand towards me, his face still unreadable.
I stare at his palm like it might burn me. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure it will, and I don’t want to find out for certain.
“I can walk myself to my door,” I say.
“Not on one shoe you’re not.” His voice strains. “I’ll walk you up. Hand. Now.”
He makes a good point. Slowly, I reach out and take his hand, feeling the firm callouses that I haven’t noticed until just now. A boiling hot surge pours into my bloodstream from the contact.
Before I can react, he pulls me into him and picks me up like I weigh nothing.
I gasp in surprise. “That was a dirty trick.”
It takes me a few heartbeats before I realize that my dress has hiked up almost to my hips, and that he’s touching my thigh, skin to skin, as he carries me home.
Are his fingers pressing into my thighs right now? I draw a slow breath as steady as I can, and shift my weight, and his grip tightens.
Yep. Definitely pressing.
“No tricks.” He looks down and those winter-gray eyes lance me with a spear of fire that settles dangerously deep in my stomach.
I reach up and hold onto his neck. “Just trying to get comfortable.”
His nostril flares ever so slightly as he looks down, and I wonder why we’ve stopped.
Then he asks, “Where are your keys?”
Oh right.
“My purse,” I reply as I start digging, glad for a chance to look anywhere but him as an unquenchable fire continues to burn on my cheeks.
After he unlocks the door, he walks me up the flights of stairs. Each step jostles me against his powerful chest. And even though I hate admitting it, thisdoesfeel nice.
