She tried to poison me.
I should be furious. In my world, betrayal is met with a bullet, or a knife, or a slow agonizing disappearance in a warehouse basement. I’ve killed men for less disrespect than she showed.
But as the elevator doors slide open and I step inside, watching our reflection in the polished steel, there’s no anger.
There’s a twisted, dangerous rush of pride.
She didn't beg. She waited for her moment, stole from me, and struck. She’s a predator in the making; she just doesn't know it yet.
Lev is waiting in the lobby by the glass doors, his hand resting casually near the holster under his jacket. He sees me step out of the elevator with Helena in my arms, her red dress trailing behind us.
He doesn't blink. He doesn't ask why the woman who is supposed to be our business partner is currently drugged and helpless. He knows better. In the Bratva, questions are a liability.
"The car is ready, Boss," Lev says, opening the door. "The shipment is staged at Terminal 4."
"Good."
I step out into the cool night air. The wind off the Atlantic hits us, sharp and smelling of rain. Helena shivers violently against me, a tremor running through her entire body.
"Cold," she whimpers, hand weakly clutching at my lapel.
"You’ll be warm soon," I promise, though there’s no warmth in my voice. Only fact.
I slide into the back of the armored SUV, pulling her in with me. I don't put her on the seat beside me. I keep her in my lap, trapping her between my body and the leather door.
She tries to push away, hands pressing feebly against my chest.
"No... don't... touch..."
"Stop fighting," I murmur against her hair. "You lost. Accept it."
The driver pulls away from the curb, and the car merges into the city traffic.
The interior of the SUV is sealed and quiet. Outside, the city is a blur of neon streaks and rain-slicked pavement, but inside, the world has narrowed down to the weight of her in my arms.
My hand rests on her waist, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. It’s slower now.
I run my tongue over my teeth.
I can still taste her.
The bitterness of the pill is fading, but the taste of her remains. It lingers like smoke.
I kissed her to punish her, to force the wine down her throat and show her that her body belongs to me. It was meant to be a violation, an assertion of dominance. A reminder that I’m the one who feeds her, and I’m the one who can silence her.
But it didn't feel like punishment. It felt like a craving being satisfied.
When I forced my tongue into her mouth, when she shuddered against me, I wasn't thinking about the shipment or the merger or the war with the Italians. I was thinking about how soft she was. I was thinking about how much I wanted to swallow her whole.
It’s a dangerous thought. A weakness. A King cannot afford to want his collateral. Collateral is meant to be spent.
I look down at her. Her head has fallen back against my arm, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
"Konstantin," she breathes, eyes fluttering. She’s looking at me, but I don't think she sees me. She’s seeing a nightmare.
"I’m here," I say.
"The ship," she mumbles. "Don't send it."
