Page 25 of Violent Pawn

“Spasibo.” Thank you.

Right after I throw up in my mouth.

Papa waves me away. “Good. Do not fail me tonight.”

As much as leaving the room is literally all I want, my feet remain. My hands are still clasped behind me, respectfully, as I ask, “What if he doesn’t take the bait?”

Papa’s brows furrow like he’s never considered the possibility. Which, maybe he hasn’t, and he’ll see that I too have a brain. He rests his pen down and looks at me for the first time since calling me into his office. “He will. Learn it now, Anastasia. Men will always take what’s freely offered, no matter if the connection is emotional or physical. They will use you until you are dried up, which is why you must always strike first.”

Most of the men who’ve dropped into my life are manipulators. They want one thing: control and power over me. With Papa’s banishment and Vanessa’s rule, thus my promotion, I long promised myself to never hand my submission to another man.

Which makes lowering my guard around Nero really challenging. Maybe because it’s amusing to watch him struggle to knock even a brick off my carefully erected walls, or maybe because there’s no genuine reason to be a bitch towards him.

Except needing to. The bitchier I am, the farther away he’ll stay. Then I’ll be safe because he’s the kind of man I could envision myself growing attached to. And that can never happen because such a connection isn’t woven into my trauma. Especially not with a pretty boy—which so many of my father’s targets were as well.

Dancing with Nero was meant to maintain my dominance while resolving the bet from Serafina’s wedding so he doesn’t harass me until my deathbed. After tonight, there’s no reason for him to bother me. The deal was struck and fulfilled, and life can move on.

But then he touched me, and all my wielded power was snatched away. For one, he can dance very well. He holds me possessively, one hand a band around my hip, the other resting on my thigh to lock me into place. My arm snakes around his neck, not even bothered by his mouth on my neck, skirting up and down and sending a fervour through me that has my thighs clenching.

The current song ends—and so should our dance—but he doesn’t release me as the next one strikes up. I don’t push him away. I should…but I don’t.

“You didn’t run.” Amusement rumbles in my ear, doing more to my insides than the last man I slept with.

“You’re a decent dancer,” I admit weakly, coming up with a reasonable excuse.

“Coming from a ballerina, that’s a compliment. You should know, it’s not the only thing I’m good at.” He nips my neck in the same manner he’s been doing all night, in a way that’ll undoubtedly leave red marks all over my skin, which should bother the hell out of me.

I twist to face him, my fingers winding into his shirt’s collar to tug him closer. “You couldn’t have come up with something less cliché?”

He winks and kisses my cheek. His lips, softer than imagined, brand my skin as potent as his teeth to my neck. As though he could read my thoughts, his eyes dip down to my neck and chest, and he grins.

“Fuck, you look good, Petrov.” He fingers where the top and my stomach meet, where the V cuts deep to the centre of my sternum. “No one here is deserving of something so striking.”

His compliment was spoken so casually, falling off his tongue like a blatant fact. Like stating the sky appears blue. I’ve been given many compliments before, but coming from Nero, they’re more.

I hate that.

“Compliments seem beneath you, Amato.”

“They’re facts.” He grins, a bit wolfish, a flash of his teeth. “It’s you, of course, but also…” He grips the side of my face, his large hand spanning to my neck where his thumb strokes against the place he nipped a few times. With his hold, he hauls me up against his chest, his lips a mere breath from mine so his next words are imprinted onto me and unable to be ignored. “I’m a possessive man, and marks like this mean one thing in my world. So good luck tonight.”

What?

Before understanding fully settles, his hand falls away, and he steps back. All at once, the club returns in full force. The music is louder, and the other guests are moving around us. The bubble surrounding us has popped, leaving me cold and empty and with a neck that’s hot and stinging.

And claimed.

“You told me to impress you. The bet’s been fulfilled—twice now—so, as promised, I’ll leave you alone. Happy hunting, Petrov.”

He winks before the crowd swallows him up and eventually delivers him on the other side of the dance floor, where only his dark hair is visible. He disappears back to the VIP section, leaving me watching from afar. A stillness in the crowd of so much motion.

Ridiculous. I flip my hair and take off in the other direction. We barely know one another. Hell, I barely like him, let alone can stand being in the same room as him. So we danced twice. So he acts like his personal mission is to be in my way. So he marked up my neck to make some asshole claim.

It doesn’t mean anything.

That. Fucking. Asshole.

Not only does he stalk me from the VIP balcony, saluting me every so often with his glass when he notices me looking, but he’s made it impossible to be even the tiniest bit interested in a single goddamn man in this place.