In three months, she’s gone from a reluctant wife to a Bratva asset to the center of my entire universe. I don’t know how I ever thought I could live without her. The week she spent in that hotel room was the longest of my life.
Never again. I made her a promise, and I intend to keep it.
Dinner is perfect. The restaurant overlooks the city, and Kirsten looks stunning in a black dress that hugs every curve. Wetalk about everything and nothing—work, family, the trip to Italy she wants to take next spring. Normal couple of things. The kind of conversation I never thought I’d have.
“You’re staring,” she notes over the rim of her wine glass.
“I’m just admiring you.” I reach across the table and take her hand. “Staring implies I can’t look away. Admiring implies I don’t want to.”
“Smooth.”
“I have my moments.”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest. It loosens something that’s been tight for years. Being with her is easy in a way that nothing else in my life has ever been. She doesn’t expect me to be perfect. She just expects me to try.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“You.”
“That’s vague.”
“I’m thinking about how different my life is now. How different I am.” I rub my thumb across her knuckles. “A year ago, I would have handled Jovan myself. I would have tracked him down and put a bullet between his eyes and called it justice.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m handing evidence to the FBI and letting the legal system do its job.” I shake my head. “My father would be horrified.”
“Your father was an abusive monster who didn’t deserve you or your siblings.”
“True. But he was also a traditionalist. Bratva problems stay in the Bratva. That’s how it’s always been done.”
“Maybe it’s time for a new way. You’re not your father, Menlow. You never were.”
I lift her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her fingers. “I know. You remind me every day.”
After dinner, I take her home. Our home. The apartment that used to feel empty now feels full, every corner touched by her presence. Her books on the shelves. Her shoes by the door. Her scent on everything.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says as I help her out of her coat.
“The evening’s not over yet.”
“Oh?” She turns to face me with one eyebrow raised. “And what else did you have in mind?”
Instead of answering, I kiss her.
She melts into me, and I wrap my arms around her as I back her toward the bedroom. We’ve done this dozens of times now, but it never gets old. Every kiss still feels like the first. Every touch still sets my blood on fire.
I find her zipper and tug it down as we walk, and she lets the dress pool at her feet when we cross the threshold into the bedroom. She’s wearing black lace underneath—a matching set that makes my mouth go dry.
“You planned this,” I accuse.
“Maybe.” She tugs at my tie, loosening the knot. “Is that a problem?”
“Not even slightly.”
She pushes my jacket off my shoulders, then goes to work on my shirt buttons. I let her take the lead, content to watch as she undresses me piece by piece. There’s something intoxicatingabout the way she looks at me. Like I’m something worth having. Something worth keeping.
When she finishes with my shirt, she drags her nails down my chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake. I hiss at the sensation.
