"We’re done here," I say to the table. "I hope you all remember our deal."
I don't wait for them to answer. I steer Irina out of the speakeasy, my arm locked around her waist like iron. The second we hit the cool night air, I press her against the Aston Martin, my body pinning her to the metal.
"You're a menace, Irina," I growl.
"I won your game, Mikhail," she pants, her eyes wide and dark in the moonlight. "You should be thanking me."
"Oh, I’ll thank you when we get home,dorogaya," I say, my mouth slamming into hers in a hard, punishing kiss that makes my entire body go stiff with want.
I pull back, my chest heaving, and open the passenger door. She climbs in, her dress clinging to her thighs, and the sight of her makes my vision go dark.
I scramble into the driver’s seat, yanking the car into gear. The Aston Martin screams out of the lot, the engine a roar of pure, aggressive speed as we head back toward the estate.
The silence in the car is different now. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window, but her skin is flushed, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the red silk.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I blink, keeping my eyes on the dark road. "For what?"
"For letting me play," she says, her voice turning vulnerable for a split second. "My father... he never would have let me sit at that table. He would have used me to distract them, but he never would have trusted me with the seat. I was touched, Mikhail. Truly."
I let out a low huff, my grip on the wheel tightening. "I know you're capable. Why wouldn't I let you play?"
She looks at me, a flicker of actual warmth in her eyes.
"Besides," I growl, my voice dropping to a rough rasp. "It worked out perfectly. Now I have those bastards exactly where I want them. And they’ll never see you coming."
"You're a terrible businessman," she murmurs, a small, sassy grin touching her lips. "Always looking for the leverage."
"I'm a Morozov," I say, turning onto the long, winding drive of the estate.
I pull up to the front doors and kill the engine, plunging the interior of the Aston Martin into deep, intimate darkness. I don't move. I just turn and look at her.
She sits there in the red silk dress, her hair falling over her shoulders, her lips swollen from our kiss. She looks like a queen. My queen. The woman who just won my war with a pack of cards.
I want her so badly I can't think straight.
If I don't put my hands on her and bury myself inside her until neither of us can breathe, I’m going to combust.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The front door shutting feels like the final click of a trap we walked into on purpose.
Mikhail doesn't wait for me to take off my heels. He grabs my hand, his palm burning, and pulls me up the curved marble staircase. His grip is bruisingly tight, his shoes loud against the steps. I jog to keep up, the hem of my dress scratching my thighs as the adrenaline from the game sours into cold panic.
I have to tell him. Right now, before I lose my nerve.
In our suite, Mikhail yanks the doors open, hauls me inside, and kicks them shut. The lock clicks with a heavy, metallic thud.
I spin, pressing my hands against his chest. "Mikhail, stop. J-Just listen to me for one second."
"I’m done listening, Irina," he growls, looming over me, a massive wall of black wool and muscle, his chest rising and falling in ragged drafts.
"I… I need to tell you, Mikhail," I say, pushing against him with all my remaining strength. "My father?—"
"Fuck him," he interrupts.
"Mikhail!" My voice rises, sharp and desperate. "I’m trying to warn you, you stubborn idiot!"
