Page 61 of Marked By the Mob

“I don’t need protection,” Krystal interrupts gently. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Emma flinches and her shoulders sag slightly, the fight draining out of her as reality settles in. This isn’t a rescue. This is a message.

Krystal moves toward the door, her bodyguards falling into step behind her. Then she pauses and turns back, her hazel eyes meeting Emma’s with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

“You were always the target,” she says calmly.

27

EMMA

I stand frozen for several seconds after Krystal finishes speaking. Nothing about this meeting has unfolded the way I imagined during the past year. She doesn’t look frightened or desperate. She doesn’t whisper for help or search the room for a chance to escape. Her posture is relaxed, confident even, like she’s exactly where she wants to be.

I try anyway.

I step forward and tell her quietly that we can take her with us right now. The men outside the gallery are armed, the exits are controlled, and Volkov’s guards are outnumbered. We can get her out of here safely.

For a brief moment, I think I see hesitation in her eyes. Something flickers there, a shadow of the girl I knew in college. But it disappears almost instantly.

Krystal simply smiles. It’s the same soft smile I remember from late-night study sessions and weekend brunches, and it breaks something inside me.

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” she says gently.

Before I can argue again, before I can beg or plead or demand she reconsider, Krystal turns and walks calmly back toward the men waiting for her. She leaves the gallery without looking back, her heels clicking against the polished floor with steady, unhurried confidence.

I stand there stunned long after the door closes behind her.

The drive back to the estate is quiet. I stare out the window most of the way, replaying the conversation again and again in my mind. Nothing about Krystal’s behavior makes sense to the version of her that I remember. The woman I knew would never have chosen this life. She would never have smiled like that while standing beside men who bought and sold people like commodities.

By the time we reach the estate, I feel emotionally drained and confused. Instead of joining the men in the study, I go straight to the bedroom suite we’ve been sharing and lock myself in the bathroom. The hot water from the shower runs for several minutes before I even step under it, steam filling the room until I can barely see the mirror. I’m trying to wash away the frustration and helplessness building inside me, trying to scrub off the feeling that I’ve failed her completely.

The water scalds my skin, but I don’t adjust the temperature. I just stand there with my forehead pressed against the tile, letting the heat punish me.

I don’t hear the door open over the sound of the water. Artur pushes into the steam-filled room without knocking or even asking permission. He doesn’t start an argument or try to lecture me about what happened at the gallery. He simply strips off hisclothes and joins me under the spray, his presence warm and steady behind me.

His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension there. “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” he says quietly.

I close my eyes. “I know.” But I don’t want to know. I don’t want to accept it.

Artur turns me around to face him, the hot water streaming between us. His dark eyes search mine, reading every emotion I’m trying to hide. Then he leans down and kisses me, slow and deep, like he’s trying to pull me out of my own head.

The tension between us slowly melts into something more intimate. His hands slide down my back, gripping my ass and pulling me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is, his cock pressing against my stomach, and the physical reminder of his desire cuts through the numbness I’ve been drowning in.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him harder, needing the distraction, needing to feel something other than failure. His tongue slides against mine, demanding and possessive, and I open for him completely. One of his hands tangles in my wet hair while the other kneads my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

“I need you,” I whisper against his lips.

“I know.” His voice is rough with desire. “I’ve got you.”

He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the tile wall, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat of the water and his body. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping over mypulse point before he sucks hard enough to bruise. I gasp, my head falling back against the wall as pleasure shoots straight to my core.

His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding me already wet and ready. “Fuck, Emma. You’re soaked.”

“Please,” I breathe, my hips rocking against his hand.

He doesn’t make me wait. Two thick fingers push inside me, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he works me with steady, deliberate strokes. His thumb finds my clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until I’m trembling against him.