Page 9 of Marked By the Mob

I hate it. I hate him. I hate that my body responds to the pressure of his against mine, to the way his hands hold my wrists just tight enough to control without bruising.

“You don’t own me,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Don’t I?” His voice is low, rough. “I paid a lot of money for you.”

I try to wrench free again, but he shifts his weight, pressing closer. The movement sends a jolt of awareness through me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

“That makes you a buyer, not an owner,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” His mouth is so close to my ear I feel the words more than hear them. “You’re here. In my home. Under my protection.”

“Protection?” I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Is that what you call hunting me down?”

“You attacked me first.” There’s amusement in his voice now, dark and infuriating.

“You were waiting for me.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t deny it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you studying the guard rotations?” His grip on my wrists tightens fractionally. “I’ve been watching you.”

The admission sends heat crawling up my spine.

He’s been watching me. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it does something else entirely.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice sharp with anger and something I won’t name.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Rurik.”

The name is foreign, harsh, and commanding. It fits him.

“Well, Rurik,” I spit it like an insult, “you can let me go now.”

“I don’t think so.” His hand slides from my wrist to my hip. “And you are?”

“None of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business now.” His voice is soft but absolute. “Your name.”

I want to refuse.

Want to deny him even this small thing. But he’s pressed against me, his body a cage I can’t escape. Besides, he’ll find out my name soon enough. If he hasn’t already. This could be a test.

“Emma,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Emma.” He says it like he’s tasting it, like it means something.

I should push him away. Should fight harder.

But his hand is warm on my hip, and when I shift against him, I feel exactly how much he wants me. The knowledge sends a dangerous thrill through me.

Maybe this is how I survive.

Maybe if I let him think he’s won, if I give him this, he’ll lower his guard. Trust me enough to make a mistake. It’s strategic and tactical.

Well, that’s what I tell myself when I stop struggling. I refuse to admit I’m attracted to him.

“Emma,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a question.

I answer by tilting my head back and kissing him.