Dante
I wake with a hard-on that could pound nails.
I don't move. Don't breathe. Just lie here acutely aware of every point where her body touches mine—her cheek on my chest, her hand curled loosely in my shirt, one of her legs thrown over mine.
Not ideal, considering the woman currently tucked against my side has just experienced severe trauma.
I grit my teeth and force myself to think about spreadsheets. Quarterly reports. The structural deficiencies in our money-laundering operation.
It doesn't help.
My cock doesn't care about timing or appropriateness. But I do. All I want to do is nurture and comfort her.
Wait. What?Nurture?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m a ruthless businessman. A remorseless killer. I've ended lives without losing sleep. I've negotiated treaties over bodies that were still warm. I don'tnurture.
I DON’T FUCKING NURTURE!
I don't hold trembling women in the dark and whisper promises I have no business making.
Except I did. All night long.
And the truly bewildering part? I wanted to.
I run through my mental catalogue, searching for precedent. When was the last time I comforted someone? Protected someone not because strategy demanded it, but because the thought of them suffering made my chest ache?
Never.
Not once.
I was raised by sociopaths. Literally. My mother was a junkie whore who overdosed when I was an infant. My father ran with Moretti's crew, and when the old man got himself killed in a turf dispute, Moretti took me under his wing. Not out of kindness—he was never kind—but because I was useful.
No one ever patted my head or tucked me in. No one ever checked if I was scared or hurt or hungry.
I learned early that comfort was weakness, weakness was fatal, and that the only person I could rely on was myself.
So where the hell does this come from? This desire to shelter her, to stand between her and every bad thing in the world?
I've never felt it before. Not for anyone.
Only her.
Which makes absolutely no fucking sense, because I've known her for less than twenty-four hours.
Polina shifts in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips, and my hand moves automatically to stroke her hair. Soothing. Gentle.
Jesus Christ.
I ease myself out of bed slowly, careful not to wake her, and retreat to the hallway like a man fleeing a crime scene.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up the number and place a call I'm not looking forward to.
"Corsini," Volkov answers in his gruff voice. "My man is eager to have his daughter back."
I keep my voice level. "There's been a complication."
