“Kissing me instead of answering difficult questions.”
“Would you prefer I answer them?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” His hand slides lower, finding the curve of my hip. “You don’t want answers. You want reasons to justify wanting me. Permission to stop fighting what you feel.”
“God, you’re arrogant.”
“I’m observant.” He steers me backward until my shoulders hit the window. “I observe that you’re thinking about last night.”
My face flushes hot. “I wasn’t!”
“Yes, you were.” His mouth finds my neck, the spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. “The answer is yes. We are. But not yet.”
Frustration spikes sharp and immediate. “Why not?”
“I want you desperate for it. Want you to stop pretending you don’t want me as much as I want you.” He steps back, leaving me flushed and wanting against the cold glass. “When you’re ready to admit that—when you can look me in the eye and tell me you want me without qualifications or excuses—I’ll give you everything you’re craving.”
Then he walks away, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the ache between my thighs and the crushing realization that he’s absolutely right.
I do want him.
Hate myself for it, but want him anyway.
Revenge was supposed to be simple. Learn his world, find his weaknesses, strike when he’s vulnerable.
Except I’m the one who’s vulnerable now.
Chapter Sixteen - Dimitri
The Pakhan’s annual gathering isn’t optional.
It’s theater disguised as business—a calculated display where alliances are showcased, hierarchies reinforced, and everyone performs the careful dance of respect and intimidation that keeps the Bratva functioning. Damien hosts it at his estate in Westchester, inviting every significant family within our sphere of influence.
Including the Volkovs.
I consider leaving Janice at home. The event will be tense enough without introducing my new wife to the family that tried to have her kidnapped. Felix suggests the same thing when I mention bringing her.
“It’s asking for trouble,” he says. “Elena will be there. Viktor will see it as provocation.”
“Good.”
“Dimitri, think about it.”
“She’s my wife. She attends family functions. That’s non-negotiable.”
Felix recognizes the futility of arguing further. “At least prepare her. Tell her what to expect.”
I don’t.
Partially because I want to see how she handles pressure without preparation. Partially because explaining the nuances of Bratva politics feels like admitting she’s more than a strategic acquisition.
Partially because I’m curious if she’ll surprise me again.
She does, the moment she steps out of the bedroom.
The dress is midnight blue, silk that clings to every curve before falling in elegant folds to the floor. Her hair is pulled back, exposing her neck and the faint marks I left there this morning. Subtle makeup emphasizes features that don’t need enhancement.
