Page 110 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“Ina said this was simple.”

I move farther into the kitchen, close enough now to smell her beneath the butter and flour. Citrus, clean linen, warmth. Less defensive than it used to be. More skin than polish.

And my shirt from last night, hanging loose on her body, open at the throat, one shoulder slipping just enough to show skin I had my mouth on hours ago.

I stop beside her, close enough that my arm brushes hers when I reach past her to lower the flame. Tamara’s breath catches, and she tries to hide it by stirring harder.

“You were not next to me when I woke up.”

Her hand pauses around the spatula. Then she resumes with unnecessary focus. “I wanted to make breakfast.”

Ina remains frozen, smiling with the calm authority of a woman who has never had a recipe go sideways. I look from the ruined crêpes to the flour on Tamara’s forearm to the faint bite mark just below the collar of my shirt.

Mine.

No.

Not mine. Hers to give. Hers to take back. Hers to decide again in daylight.

The distinction is the only reason I don’t touch her immediately. Instead, I cover her hand lightly where it grips the spatula. Her fingers loosen after a moment, and I take the utensil from her and set it on the counter.

“Breakfast can wait,” I say, and turn her toward me slowly.

The second she faces me, the amusement fades. “I didn’t know what the morning was supposed to look like,” she says.

Her hair is loose around her face, one sleeve sliding down her arm, batter still drying on her cheek. She looks nothing like the woman who walked down the aisle in white lace and fury. She looks like a woman who woke up in my bed and tried to build something normal before fear could talk her out of it.

“You were asleep beside me, and it felt…” She stops, exhales. “It felt very normal.”

I wait.

Tamara looks down at my chest instead of my face. “That scared me more than the rest of it.”

There are many things I could say. That she is allowed to be scared. That last night changes nothing she does not want changed. That I won’t ask her for a label before she has found her own.

Instead, I reach up and brush the batter from her cheek. Her eyes close for half a second when my thumb passes over her skin.

That small surrender nearly finishes me.

“You left me in the bed.” My words are threadbare.

Something flickers in her face. Heat. Surprise. A dangerous little spark of satisfaction. “You sound irritated.”

“I am.” I brace one hand on the counter beside her hip. Not trapping her. Giving myself somewhere to put the force of wanting her. “I woke up wanting my wife and found cold sheets instead.”

Tamara’s hand rises to my chest, flour dusting the black cotton of my T-shirt. Her fingers curl there, not pushing me away. Pulling me closer. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again.

“You can kiss me, Aleksander.”

Permission. Clear. Soft. Devastating.

I close the distance and take her mouth.

The kiss is hard, deep, morning-hot and edged with all the irritation of waking alone when I had fallen asleep with her in my arms.

Tamara makes a small sound against my mouth and opens for me. My control goes thin.

Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair, and the spatula clatters somewhere behind her. I don’t care. The stove is still on. I don’t care about that either for three dangerous seconds.