Page 23 of Violent Pawn

The thought has been pounding at my head since the moment she descended the stairs earlier. Despite the November weather and snow outside, she acts as though it’s summer in her tight leggings, heeled boots that make her my height, and top that might just burn the entirety of the world down.

Or I will, if someone looks down it.

A protective thought for my best friend’s soon-to-be-fiancée’s best friend, and nothing more.

A V-neck leaves her shoulders bare while dipping dangerously low, nearly to her belly button, and exposing skin no man will be able to avoid studying with the same intensity I am. Tattoos peek from the edges around her shoulder blades that have me begging to undress her and see them for myself. It doesn’t fucking help that her hair’s been wrangled and contained in some hairdo I wish I knew the name of, but leaves the nape of her neck bare, face framed by loose strands. It’s the perfect place to trace with my tongue. Even now, having her against me, my eyes can’t help but trail it, pausing on her pulse.

“Thanks,” she mutters, stiff in my arms while Vanessa straightens her own clothing and takes Zeno’s arm before leading the way to the doors. Anastasia uses that as an escape and slips from my side to follow.

I catch up in one large stride, wrapping my hand around hers to tug her against me. “I didn’t realize you were capable of the word.”

“I said it once before.” She yanks her hand away before rushing closer to the others. At the darkened doorway, the bouncer lets the four of us through.

The club’s practically pitch-dark and takes my vision a few seconds to adjust, even as Vanessa heads for a nearby staircase guarded by another bouncer. Music thunders beneath my feet and throughout my body, and despite alcohol being somewhere close by, I really don’t want to be here.

As my vision starts clearing thanks to the fluorescent lights, so does the smaller section of the club—a balcony overlooking the downstairs.

Vanessa claims the nearest couch and staff immediately pounce to gather drink orders. Zeno drops beside her while I lower myself into the single low-backed chair across from them, kicking an ankle over my knee. Anastasia is the only one who remains standing, and she grabs her drink as soon as the server returns with them.

“Gonna sit?” Vanessa and Zeno are already lost in their own world, leaving only her and me which I’m okay with.

“Nope, I’m going to dance.” She takes the shot and spins for the stairs we just ascended. It sends me out of my chair before I realize what I’m doing, even abandoning my drink to block her exit. She stops short of my chest, her nostrils doing this flaring thing I find almost endearing.

“Why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?”

“You’re the tagalong. I’m here to have fun, so if you’ll excuse me.” She steps to the side, but I block her exit with one arm while offering her my other—and the hope in my next question.

“You still owe me a dance. Let’s have it here.”

Red-painted lips, a colour so opposite from the angel I first met her as, roll together. “Dancing with you will counter my entire purpose of coming here.”

To find other men. It’s ridiculous because I hardly know her and certainly have no claim on her, but all she’s done is make me more insistent to get her in my arms, showing everyone here she’s not theirs. She’s not mine either, but they have no rights to her. Their arms don’t deserve to be around her.

“One dance, then I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

“I wish you’d leave me alone now.” Scowling, she tries to move again, but I walk into her, my hands landing on her hips to keep her still. Behind us, Zeno’s watching with the same protectiveness he has for his sister.

My fingers slide against literal silk—the strip of skin between her pants and top. We both know she could very well get me off her if she wants, even pushing me down the stairs I’m blocking.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, it’s like we’re the only ones present. Her, me, and her fucking silky angelic body that’s entangled in my mind, halfway between the old shame and fresh desires.

“Friends, Petrov.” My offer hangs, both of us watching the other, not knowing what to do with it. “Our people have made themselves into two happy little couples, which means we’ll be spending a lot of time around one another. Being friendly is in our best interest. And friends dance with one another.”

“Friends,” she repeats with a little lift of her lips. It’s that lift, though, that makes me a winner. “Fine. One dance, then go away. People will assume we’re together, and I won’t have you ruining my night.”

I plan on making her night.

With her hand in mine, I lead her down the stairs to keep her close. People glance over as we slink through the crowd, but I couldn’t care less. Anastasia is a beacon for attention, and while I have it all to myself, I’ll be taking advantage of every second to get under her skin. To be…close. For no actual reason other than wanting her to look at me without disdain.

On the dance floor, she disengages her hand, throws her head back with a wicked grin, then turns to give me her back.

The music sweeps her away in a sensual dance meant for a bedroom, not the club. A dance that requires fewer layers of clothing and a different song in the background—one of her moans, cries, and screams as she drenches the bed.

She turns around until her body presses against mine. Her angelic tenderness and ballerina fluidity are as captivating as the first time I watched her on stage. She rotates her hips, tempting parts of me into getting on my knees and begging for more, and loops her arms behind my neck as her eyes slide shut. Her expression is all peace and terror wrapped in beauty.

Holy fuck, she’s on the verge of killing me.