Page 157

His brows lift. “What?”

I gesture between us, hating myself for it because my hand language is getting more pathetic by the second. “This. Me coming here. Feeling…” I stop before I say safe out loud. The word sticks in my throat. “Comfortable.”

His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Yes.”

Before I can overthink it into oblivion, I lean up and press a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It’s barely there.

More of a touch than a kiss.

***

This is bad.

I ignored my brother’s warnings.

But it’s a bit too late. I mean, I let Kento fuck me. If I regretted it, this would be simpler. I could call myself an idiot, swear him off, slam every door, and go back to stabbing him. Instead, my brain has staged a full-scale mutiny. Every sensible thought is being outvoted by a committee of deeply questionable impulses of wanting his dick inside of me.

Should I stay away again?

Probably.

Will I?

No.

I don’t think I will.

Something smacks me in the side of the head.

I blink and look down. A wrapped chocolate truffle rolls into my lap.

Across from me, Dimitri is sprawled back on one end of the couch. His blue eyes are narrowed in my direction, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, whiskey glass balanced against his thigh.

“There he is,” he says. “Thought we lost you.”

I throw the truffle back at his face. He catches it one-handed without even flinching. Obnoxious.

He pops the truffle into his mouth and chews. “Case in point.”

I glare at him, then drag my gaze away. We’re in one of the side lounges at the Morozov estate, the smaller sitting room off the west wing that only really gets used by family and whichever doomed soul Dimitri picked for the week.

Alexei sits on the other couch across from us. Or more accurately, his body does.

He’s there physically, one forearm resting on his knee, glass untouched on the table in front of him. But the rest of him feels… absent. Like someone hollowed him out. He hasn’t said more than three words in the last half hour.

Marco has been getting significantly worse.

No one says it like that, of course. This family has a pathological aversion to naming pain directly unless there’s blood involved. But that’s what it is. Worse.

I hate it.

Mostly because I can’t do anything about it.

I try to change the subject and maybe lighten the heavy atmosphere before the room entirely runs out of oxygen. My eyes drop to the front of Dimitri’s otherwise spotless linen shirt, zeroing in on a conspicuous dark blotch right over his ribs.

“So,” I say, tilting my head with false brightness, “did the Morozov treasury run dry?”