Page 63 of Violent Pawn

“Da,” she admits after a moment.

“I like yours too.” I like your everything. “What I don’t like is this dress and how you look.”

“But you just said⁠—”

“I don’t like how everyone is looking at you.” Hand to the curve between her ass and her back, I no longer care what the others think. Let them see this woman is becoming mine. “It pisses me off.”

“Playing jealous again? On New Year’s, you claimed there’s no reason to be.”

I duck my head, eyes dropping to the lips I long to taste. I wonder what she’d do if I kissed her in front of everyone. “You’re right, I don’t. I can’t be jealous over someone who was always meant to come into my life. Eleven years ago, we met in Poland, and I couldn’t get you out of my head for weeks afterwards. I was dying to know if you were alright. Then, all these years later, you stormed my home and forced me to my knees. It was unnecessary because the sight of you put me there anyway. It’s fuckin’ fate, cara mia.”

The room falls away as she looks at me. Like nothing else here matters. Not the party. Not the many observers.

“Fate isn’t real,” she whispers after a moment.

“Until recently, I didn’t believe it either. What else explains this?”

“This?”

“The fact you’re addiction personified.” And I know addiction quite well. “That I can’t get you out of my head. You’ve infected me, but it’s an illness I’ll be thrilled to die from if it means you’re beside me. That kiss on Christmas had the power to destroy me, but New Year’s…fuck. Then you ignore me, barely responding to my texts, and still, instead of seeing this as a sign, you’ve reeled me in deeper.”

“It’s attraction. Chemicals in our body.”

Chemicals have me inhaling her sweet scent from her neck. “Chemicals don’t explain connection.”

Her mouth opens to respond, but we’re interrupted by some asshole who’s decided death by hanging will be a pleasant way to end his night—because that’s what I’m doing to him if he doesn’t fuck off.

“The song is over, Signorina Petrov.” Some slick cousin of the Romano organization juts his hand forward, and my own twitches for the knife on me, prepared to cut it off should he bring it anywhere closer to her. “May I have the next dance?”

My hand tightens around hers as I glare at him. “Signorina Petrov is off-limits—now and forever. She’s mine. Go find your own.”

My words register too late.

Too late is a second after Anastasia’s hand turns as icy, and that wall I’ve been breaking brick by brick is reinforced with steel, shoving me onto one side with no doorway back. Horror consumes her—her brows draw together as betrayal darkens the emerald of her eyes. She jerks away and backs up a few inches, which feels like a cavern.

“Ana—” I stride forward, intending to climb the damn cavern back to her if I must, but her palm on my chest pushes me back down.

“An object,” she grates. Her defences unpeel to reveal the kind of pain captivity brings with it. “That’s all I am to you? An object to possess?”

“No, Anastasia⁠—”

She turns and flees through the crowd, my fingers brushing her dress before she’s out of reach.

31

ANASTASIA

“All mine for the night.”

“Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

“My good little slut.”

“So pretty on your knees.”

“Maybe I’ll make you mine forever. What’s the price on your cunt for a long-term arrangement? I’ll speak with your father after I’m finished with you.”

Voices—them—the ones I’ve locked behind bars and cells and beneath layers of security and snarky remarks and blocks of ice formed around my heart smash through. The ice that has melted while being with Nero means there’s room for them to slither back inside. The voices rush after me as I bolt through the venue’s hallways, wishing we were in Moscow and not Rome, so I can burrow in my bedroom and never leave it again.