Page 36 of Violent Pawn

I hate his cockiness; that he showed up here. Also, what the fuck is he doing in Russia?

Nero appears in the doorway in a pressed tux that sends me back to the beginning—to when my dislike was tangible enough to grasp and use to push him away. To Sera’s wedding, the first time seeing him in something dressy.

He enters, gripping a bouquet of roses, scanning me up and down. Ocean eyes push waves all through my body with the same overpowering sensation as if he was stroking me with his hands. They course up my legs, over the hips he once gripped, up my sides and near the slit in my robe.

He shuts the door, hiding the world while keeping the suffocating pressure inside. Until it’s only him and me and the silence broken by the hitch in my breath I pray he doesn’t hear.

I can’t be falling for this…this…this—whatever this is. Nero is the same kind of man as the others from my history. It’s a belief I’ll live and die by if I must.

“I’ve heard it’s rude to show up without flowers.” He juts them forward, daring me to accept them. His fingers brush along mine as he hands them over, the muscle in his cheek twitching.

Typical Anastasia would push them—and him—away. Since that’s what he expects, and if I have any hope of maintaining control of this situation, I need to rely on friendliness.

“Did you come with Zeno?”

He scrapes his fingers through his hair, mussing it from the slick-back put-together look he’s managing. My insides jolt at the sight of him natural again—the Nero I’ve come to know. “Nah, I’m alone.”

“In town for business?”

A smirk graces his sinfully full lips before he accepts the non-existent invite to approach. “C’mon, Petrov. Stop pretending you don’t know who I’m here for.”

He takes a step, so I do as well. The backs of my knees hit my vanity bench, trapping me. Trapping me in a manner I’d been before and vowed to never again.

With Nero, he’d hurt me in worse ways than any other man.

“Why would you come?”

Another step, until he steals the flowers from stiff fingers to reach by and rest them on the vanity instead. It places him further inside my vicinity, close enough to spot the dimple on his cheek and the glisten in his eyes; to smell his cologne and be reminded of every other moment we were close to one another.

“You’re a smart woman. Figure it out. What does one do as an observer during a ballet show?”

“Smartass.”

He tips his head, bringing his hand between us. We’re both watching and waiting for his next move with anticipation and fear. My heart thuds harder than I knew possible. Surely, it’ll give me away.

He fingers the edge of the robe, slipping just inside but goes no further than trailing up to my neck, over my pulse, and around my cheek. As he straightens slightly, his breath blows warm over my face and eyes continue up to my hair in an artful updo paired with the silver crown for my character.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gorgeous. An angelo.”

“Compliments aren’t your thing, Amato. Give up.”

“You think I’m lying?” His eyes flash, and the next thing I know, his finger is digging into my chin, and my head is being tilted. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been told how you look.”

“All the time.” It’s a bit defiant, a bit breathless.

“We both know you’re too confident to not believe them.”

“I believe them.” Lifting my chin, I go to move away, but Nero is quick. In the same breath, he latches a hand around my neck, his other on my hip. “It’s their motives that have me questioning it.”

“So you’re questioning my motives? Why does everything need to have one? Maybe you are my motive.”

Something reaches out and grips my heart. Hope, perhaps? Except I gave up that feeling a long time ago. “You’re not a good liar.”

“Or you’re simply not equipped at dealing with people telling the truth.”

Blyat. He couldn’t have been more accurate if he tried.

Trick, trick, trick. It echoes around my head, rebricking the walls that shook by a few fucking flowers.