She flinches back and yanks her blouse closed. Her face crumbles from passion to shame.
And she runs.
Her footsteps echo down the hall, followed by the slam of the bedroom door.
Breathing heavily, I look at my hands. They’re shaking. My cock still aches, traitorously hard. I chose revenge. I chose the hate. But for those few moments, with her mouth on me, offering herself brokenly, I wanted her more than I wanted the war.
I straighten my jacket and push the weakness down, deep where the light can't touch it, then walk out of the library and back to the main room.
Ivan looks up, sensing the mood. He doesn't ask.
"The ship," I say, my voice dead flat. "Status?"
"It's still on course, Boss," he replies. "But if the Italians know the route, they’ll be waiting. They won't try to sink it. They’ll try to seize it."
"Let them try," I challenge.
I touch the tablet in my pocket. The codes are safe. The weapons are safe.
But Helena is exposed.
If Moretti knows the route, he knows I’m moving pieces, and he knows Arthur gave him the keys. He’ll come for the only leverage I have left. He’ll try to take her back or kill her to hurt me.
No one touches my collateral.
"We aren't running," I tell Ivan. "The ship stays on course. We need those weapons. They’re the only way I can burn Moretti's empire to the ground."
"And the girl?" Ivan asks. "If Arthur is working with Moretti, she’s a liability. She might try to run to him."
I look at the dark hallway where she disappeared.
"She won't run," I say, a cold plan forming in my mind. "Because by tomorrow night, she won't be able to."
"What are you going to do?"
I walk to the window and take in the city. The lights are bright, but the shadows are deep.
"I’ll ensure she never leaves me," I say. "If Arthur Blackwood thinks he can steal her back, he’s wrong."
I turn to Lev.
"Prepare the car for tomorrow morning. We’re going to the office. It’s time to close the trap."
13
HELENA
Morning light bleeds through the heavy curtains of the guest suite.
I haven’t slept. I couldn’t.
Lying in the center of the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind remains in the library. My body is still there.
My thighs burn from where he spread them apart. Ghosts of the blunt press of him at my entrance linger, slick and hot, right before he froze and stepped away like I was poison.
Touching my lips, I can still taste him.
The memory washes over me, hot and shameful. The way he slammed me against the bookshelf. The sound of the books hitting the floor. The violence of his grip on my waist.
