Page 49

"And what did you find?" he growls, his thumb stroking over my lower lip, parting my mouth with rough demand.

Instead of answering, my right hand moves like lightning.

The three-inch ceramic blade I keep hidden beneath the cushion slides into my palm. In the space of half a breath, the cold edge of the blade is pressed flush against the thick jugular pulsing on the side of his neck.

Victor freezes. His eyes drop to the blade, then flick right back to mine.

Neither of us moves. His hand is around my throat; my knife is at his jugular. The air between us crackles with enough volatile tension to detonate the entire floor.

Slowly, deliberately, a wicked grin spreads across his scarred face.

"You really are a little viper," he rumbles, completely unfazed by the threat of his own blood.

"The deadliest in the garden, sweetheart," I whisper back, tilting my chin to meet his gaze. "Now, are you going to tell me where the Scottish council is hiding the rest of their money, or am I going to have to make a mess on your imported rug?"

Victor's grip on my neck shifts, sliding into my dark hair, curling his fingers tightly until my scalp stings.

"I'll tell you everything, Gemma," he groans, his mouth crashing down onto mine in a brutal, hungry collision of teeth and tongues. "Right after I fuck that smirk off your pretty face."

I drop the blade onto the rug and wrap both legs around his waist, pulling the monster into the dark with me.

The master bedroom of Victor Reznikov's penthouse is built like a Siberian fortress lined in black sable and polished slate.

Outside, the snowstorm howls against triple-pane reinforced glass, rattling the city of Moscow under sub-zero winds. Inside, the heat from the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace washes over my bare skin in waves, smelling of birch smoke, leather, and the heavy musk of pure male arrogance.

I sit at the foot of his king-size bed on a plush fur spread, wearing nothing but a black silk robe tied loosely around my waist. In my lap sits my ceramic dagger, the razor edge catching the flickers of orange firelight as I test the point against the pad of my thumb.

A single drop of crimson wells up on my skin. I bring my thumb to my lips and suck the metallic sweetness away without breaking my stare.

Across the room, coming out of the steam-filled master bath, Victor stalks toward me with only a dark gray towel riding low on his narrow hips.

The man is a terrifying work of art. Water droplets glisten across the thick ridges of his chest, tracking down the grooves of his eight-pack and disappearing beneath the terrycloth. His torso is a roadmap of violence: bullet entry scars across his ribs, jagged shrapnel lines over his left shoulder, and criminal tattoos that tell the brutal history of his rise through the Russian underworld.

His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, dilated, predatory, and entirely focused on the girl holding a knife in his bed.

"Still clutching your toy, little viper?" Victor rumbles, his thick accent rolling over the syllables like heavy artillery over frozen ground.

"A toy that could slice your femoral artery in three seconds flat, big boy," I counter with a wicked grin, letting the silk robe part slightly over my thighs as I lean back against the pillows. "Come closer and let's see how fast you bleed out on your imported sheepskin."

Victor doesn’t hesitate, which I like in a man who knows what they want.

He crosses the distance between us in three long, silent strides, his massive frame blotting out the light from the fireplace. He climbs onto the mattress, his weight dipping the bed, and cages me between his arms before I can even lift the blade.

His large, calloused hand shoots out, snatching my wrist with bruising strength and pinning the knife flat against the headboard above my head.

With his other hand, he grips my throat.

His fingers span the entire width of my neck, his thumb pressing directly into my windpipe, not enough to choke off my air completely, but enough to make my lungs burn for every shallow breath. The sensation is instant electricity. My hips arch up against his towel-wrapped waist, feeling the massive, rock-hard length of him pressing heavy against my center through the thin silk of my robe.

"You talk too much, Gemma," Victor growls, his mouth inches from mine, his hot breath smelling of mint and seventy-proof spirits. "In Russia, we do not let little girls make threats in our beds."

"You're not in Russia anymore, Pakhan," I gasp, my lips parting as my pulse hammers wild against his palm. "You're in my world now. And in my world, men who try to choke me end up in body bags."

"Then kill me," he challenges, a savage grin curling his lips as he leans down and bites into the soft flesh where my neck meets my shoulder.

I let out a ragged moan that turns into a curse as his teeth sink deep enough to mark me. The sting makes my vision spark with stars, but before the pain can settle, his rough tongue licks over the bite, soothing the burn with scalding heat.

He releases my wrist, letting the ceramic dagger clatter onto the floorboards beside the bed. In one ruthless jerk, his hand finds the satin tie of my robe and rips it open, exposing my bare breasts, my flat stomach with a hint of an abs, and the trimmed neat hair between my thighs to his hungry gaze.