Page 93 of Lethal Obsession

I’m glad we’re alone here, or at least, without anyone who knows us properly. Glad there’s no Lourdes or Benny to cast knowing glances at me and ask for details. No family to . . . Well, I think dryly, toweling my hair, to shoot him, which they undoubtedly would.

I don’t bother to stop and marvel at how truly fucked-up that is. It’s just the way our world is.

And there’s no point worrying about it, I think, because it’s not a problem I have any idea how to solve.

The only thing I know is that for the first time I can ever remember, I am truly, unadulteratedly happy.

And I have no intention of giving that up—no matter how many guns get pointed at us.

“We’re getting dressed.” It’s two days later, and I’ve just emerged from the shower after Alexei derailed breakfast by deciding my body was better to lick honey from than his toast. “No.” I shake my finger and back away from his speculative glance at my towel. “It’s been two days since I sat at a piano. You know I love being here, but at some point I am going to have to go home and practice.”

“What if I said you could practice here?” Alexei’s mouth curls in a smile I can’t quite read.

I grimace. “I know you’ve probably got an electronic keyboard I can use, and that will do, I guess, for a day or two. But eventually I’m going to need a proper piano.”

“Understood.” Throwing back the covers, he stands up, not even attempting to hide an impressive hard-on, which has me suddenly wetter than the pool and rethinking my resolve. “Not a chance,” he says, giving me a knowing look as he passes on his way to the shower. “I won’t be held responsible for you falling behind in practice.”

I watch until the shower door closes behind him, resisting the urge to open it and see to what imaginative use he puts the soap.

After so many years of desperate longing, the compulsion to touch Alexei, to be close to him, is overwhelming. I’ve traced every scar on his body, every line of ink.

Other than what lies behind the eye patch, of course. That boundary is one I not only understand, but respect.

I don’t need to know the stories behind the many lines crisscrossing his flesh. My own time with the Orlovs is more than enough for my imagination to fill in the blanks. And I knew, even back then, that Alexei didn’t come by his precision with a blade by happy chance. I know the only way he mastered those skills was from being subjected to the same punishment himself, repeatedly.

Even the ink marking his skin is familiar, the bratva star on his shoulder marking him as pakhan the same as that worn by my father and my grandfather.

There’s no mystery to me in what Alexei is.

The mystery lies in what we’re destined to be together.

And the thought of going back to Granada without him is terrifying. I feel like the moment I leave, he’ll disappear, along with the part of myself that now belongs to him, a part I know can’t ever be truly reclaimed.

But thankfully, before I can dwell too long on that dark prospect, the shower shuts off.

Smiling to myself, I dress hastily, before my own seemingly incessant desire for Alexei derails me for another day.

Having entirely avoided both the crew and the dragons for the past two days, I’m rather self-conscious when I pass Teresa on my way through the salons. To her credit, she merely nods politely at me, although I don’t miss the withering glare she offers Alexei when she thinks I don’t notice.

Not that it affects him in the slightest, going by the shit-eating grin he gives her in response.

“Be nice,” I hiss as we move out of hearing range. “She’s keeping our secrets.”

“Not if you count her daily reports to Mak,” Alexei says dryly. “Although I didn’t see anything in them about those little noises you make when you’re about to come, so at least she’s keeping the reports strictly professional.”

“I do not make little noises.”

“You do.” Stopping at a locked door, he turns and kisses me, hard enough to take my breath away and turn my insides to molten heat. “See?” His low voice curls in my ear. “You’re making them right now. And if I just slide my fingers up here . . .” His hand inches up my thigh beneath the thin cotton sundress until I gasp. “You’ll start making even better ones.”

This time when he kisses me it’s slower, more deliberate, and hot enough that I’m about to consign all thoughts of practice to the sea, when he abruptly breaks off.

“Ofelia.”

Oh, the way he says my name.

“Uh-huh,” I moan, no longer caring what Teresa, or anyone else, writes in their report.

But he’s stepped out of reach, though not without considerable effort, going by the dark look in his eye and the savage thrust beneath his shorts.