Page 46 of Then We Shatter

I arch an eyebrow. “You crushed my diamond.” Killian would approve.

Vasili huffs next to me while Eric scrutinizes my reaction. Pleased I’m not upset, he pries open the velvet box to reveal another monstrous diamond. A pink one.

“Ooh, how sweet,” Sasha coos from across the table. “Put it on, Katarina.”

“I think that’s my job,” Eric says, taking my hand and slipping the Disney-style ring onto my finger.

There’s a smattering of applause around us as Eric cups my face and kisses me before anyone else sees my scowl. Image is everything to Eric Peterson.

Chapter 17

Killian

Before

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” asks the assistant as she leads me into a discreet room at the back of the store. She’s already gone through the process, but when she sets down the equipment, she doesn’t leave.

“The insertion can be quite tricky if you’re not fully prepared.” Biting her lip, she holds my gaze, and I know she’s fighting the urge to look at my crotch. “And we do want to get it right first time, don’t we?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve had years of experience handling this equipment.”

She twirls a lock of blond hair around her finger. “You’re sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

I glance at her name badge. “Can I be honest with you, Amber?”

Amber nods.

“My woman is a mad, psycho bitch, and when she asks how the mold was made, she’s going to want to know who was handling the goods. It won’t end well for either of us if I have to tell her it wasn’t a solo expedition.”

Amber purses her lips. She’s not going to be easily dissuaded so I take hold of her shoulders and direct her towards the door. “If you’re ever in Las Vegas, you should look up my twin brothers. I think it would take two of them to handle you. Now off you go. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Once I’m alone, there’s only one woman on my mind. I think of all the ways my gift is going to pleasure my Kitty when I can't be with her. She can take it on her travels as a reminder that no man is ever going to measure up to me. The thought that someone might try doesn’t help me get in the mood, so I think of all the ways I want to fuck Katarina Barkov before her wedding day.

I sit bolt upright in bed, Glock pulled from beneath my pillow as I listen for the sound that woke me up. The security I’ve installed in my Chicago apartment rivals anything the Russians have, but no system is infallible.

I strain my ears, but damn it, I can’t hear anything above the clamoring of my heart and the ringing that’s setting my teeth on edge. I snap my head towards the glow of my cell phone on the nightstand. I’m an idiot. It’s the phone that woke me up. The dread of losing Katarina is fucking with my head.

Even so, my pulse doesn’t slow. Someone’s calling me in the middle of the night, which means it’s not going to be good news. I’m trying to figure out what time it is in Vegas when my bleary eyes register the name on the screen. Kitty never calls, and even texts are limited to only when necessary. At this time of night, whatever it is can’t wait…

As I lunge for my phone, I reach too far and almost tumble out of bed. I’m precariously balanced with one hand planted on the floor as I connect the call.

“Kitty? What’s wrong?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Fuck. I’m supposed to be better than this. I should have waited for her to speak. It might not be Katarina. What if I’ve just given us both away?

Could the Bratva pick up my accent from one short greeting? Who am I trying to kid? They probably have the technology to recognize a target from the sound of their fucking breaths, and I’m breathing heavily.

I hold my next inhale and wait. The next hitched breath isn’t mine.

“Shit,” I say as I expel a lungful of stale air. I can recognize Katarina’s stifled sobs from the rare times she’s allowed herself to cry. I bet I’m the only one who can. I pull myself back onto the bed. “Kitty, tell me what’s happened. Tell me what you need me to do. Who I need to kill.”

“If there’s any killing to be done, I want to do it,” she says, her words wet with tears. “I’m being attacked from all sides and I’m sick of not being able to fight back.” Her jaw is clenched in frustration when she adds, “I could murder someone right now. Anyone.”

I try not to smile. Judging by the tone of her tirade, it’s safe to assume she’s not in immediate danger. She wants to vent and I’m the one she’s turned to. I’m her person.

“Do you want me to make a list, lovely?”

“I already have one,” she says. “One that’s grown very long over the years.”