Roman would say the same thing.
The realization drives a spike into my gut.
Roman probablyhassaid the same thing about every person he’s ever manipulated or destroyed. That his actions were necessary for the greater good of the family, of the empire. Whatever justification lets him sleep at night after stabbing my mother.
No. I’m nothing like him.
Besides, what’s done is done. I can’t go back and make different choices. All I can do is ensure my father pays for his sins. Roman put me on this path. Ultimately, he’s the one at fault and the reason I’m doing this.
None of this would have happened if not for the shit show he started on the island.
So, really, I’m seeking justice for those women as well, even if they’re not aware.
Max must see me wavering, because he tilts forward, just an inch.
Even bound and helpless, he radiates danger. “What’s wrong, Nika? Don’t like facing the truth of your actions?”
The question hits exactly where he meant it to, deep in my conscience.
No, I don’t, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, in through my mouth and out through my nose. Dimitri taught me years ago how to regulate my breathing and focus on my goals.
When I open my eyes, the hesitation’s gone. I’m in control of every piece of me, my mind impenetrable.
The bastard’s still smirking and rotating his fists like he wants to punch me.
There’s something appealing about the sight of Mad Max tied to a chair and basically stripped to the waist.
Pure masculine power, on display and rendered temporarily harmless.
Except he’s not.
At least, that’s what his arctic blue eyes tell me. They’re icy and calculating, as if he thinks he’s still menacing. Still capable of destroying me if I give him the slightest opportunity.
I read more than just the threat in his gaze.
He’s leering, even if unintentionally. I’m certain he can’t help himself and that he hates it as much as I do.
His body’s betraying him just like mine did in the ballroom, when his hands settled on me and I couldn’t control the way I responded. The predicament drove me mad. Compelled me to confess more than I wanted.
An idea starts to form. I can do to him what he did to me.
“I may not like that, but I do like what I see.” I trail my fingertips over his arm as I walk around him, then I bend down.
Like a magnet, he shifts to get closer, gravitating toward my touch.
Lifting one leg, I straddle him, hanging my calves off the back of the chair. “Do you?”
He stiffens—in more ways than one—as I lower myself onto him. His lips form a tight line, and he leans away now that I’ve demonstrated how easy he is to control. Taking my time, I flip my dress out of the way, draping the garment over the chair and his legs.
“Poor Mad Max.” The nickname rolls off my tongue, mocking and victorious in one. “All tied up…”
I settle onto his lap, wiggling until I’m comfortable, even though he’s pressed against my groin. The contact energizes me, nearly disrupting my plan. At least I can stop at any time. He can only sit here and accept what I give him.
He can’t move or touch. Can’t do anything while I position myself exactly where I want to be.
His thighs are so unbelievably hard under my ass. Each time he shifts, they flex beneath me like mini roller coasters. That’s nothing compared to the small, hot twitches of his cock against my underwear. Is he doing that on purpose?
Surely a man can’t twitch like that intentionally.
