Page 53 of Violent Pawn

Her eyes flick up from the plastic. “How’d you know?”

“Lev. I asked him a few days ago where you buy your shoes from, or if he knows what you need, material-wise. Or if you wanted something for your studio… But he didn’t know. In fact, my question seemed to confuse him. So I relied on Vanessa, who at least knew your preferred shop, but couldn’t say what you needed. You really don’t do a good job of sharing yourself with your family. Anyway”—I flick the card before tucking it into her hand—“I figured you could buy something with this.”

She stares at it for a long time. Long enough that a sense of wrongness settles heavy on my shoulders, broken only when she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and peeks beneath the fanning of her lashes. “You didn’t need to.”

“I wanted to. Twice now, I’ve witnessed you on stage. You must burn through those flat-toed shoes like crazy, so maybe buy the next ones with me in mind.”

“Pointe shoes,” she murmurs, almost mutely. “Or ballet slippers for the flatter, more flexible ones.” Folding her hand around the card, she looks utterly lost, and it’s endearing. “I didn’t get you anything in return.”

“You can right now.”

Her brows meld together, but before the inevitable question comes, I tilt her head back so she can see the addition that was added to the room sometime after we left yesterday. An addition that’s about to get Gabriella a brand-new house or literally whatever in the world she wants, for doing me the favour of hanging the sprig of mistletoe.

Her eyes narrow into the tiniest slits as she tilts her chin, digging it into my finger. “You planned this.”

“Did not. Didn’t notice it until we stopped moving. Convenient place, though, no? Like fate. C’mon, Petrov.” My lip curls mockingly. “Can’t skip tradition.”

“I’m not kissing you.” Settling her shoulders, she straightens her spine into the fighting stance I’ve witnessed before. “Ask for something else.”

“‘Something else’ opens up a whole world of possibilities you won’t want me to explore. Besides, it’s bad luck not to obey mistletoe.”

“That’s when you break a mirror.”

Not taking the bait, I bend at the waist, lining our faces up. “I dare you, Ana.” A game different than the bet from Sera’s wedding, but still reminiscent of the old strategies to get closer to her.

She swallows, huffs, and flicks her eyes to the plant before scanning up and down the hallway to ensure we’re alone.

“You’re not breakable,” I remind her of her own words—her own determination to make them true. Maybe I’m a dick for twisting them to my needs.

“Fine.”

Four letters—a single word—have never sounded better. My brain short-circuits in a way similar to seeing her in my shirt last night, or if she lowered to her knees right now and offered a different kind of kiss.

She rests her hands on my chest and lifts onto her toes. Fingers grasp my chin to hold me in place, as though I’d be going anywhere. With her hold that has me practically putty in her hands, she jerks my head to the side, presses her lips to my cheek, and in nearly the same breath, releases my face to duck around me.

Her steps rush down the hallway and into another room, but it’s her lingering laughter reassuring me she’s levelled up the gameboard and her running isn’t away but to me. In the indirect most Anastasia Petrov manner she could manage.

“Nicely played, Petrov,” I murmur to the empty hallway, stroking the place her lips were.

She assumes she’s won this round, but the truth is, she hasn’t won a round since the moment we met eleven years ago.

She’s just made herself mine.

27

ANASTASIA

Ilie in bed, disturbed by how easy it is to breathe. For once, my lungs are light, and the regular weight in my stomach is gone. My body is being stupid, as if I’m a girl experiencing her first crush.

I don’t have a crush—or whatever the adult version of that is—on Nero Amato. It just isn’t—can’t—happen. Kissing his cheek was merely a taunt. It wasn’t meant to bring me close enough to spot the jump of his pulse or his intake of breath. Or feel his stubble beneath my lips and wonder what it would have been like to shift my direction and give him the kiss he was asking for.

He tricked me there, so I had to get one over him. To twist the narrative he wrote himself as being a winner into my version.

My fingers brush over my lips, feeling the memory of his cheek, while wondering what it’d be like to actually kiss him. Nero would be good at it, I think. He’s too confident to not be.

Fuck my mind for going there.

It took years after Papa’s torment to even be able to kiss a guy without puking in my mouth because he ruined that too.