Page 14 of Volatile Waters

I set my shoulders back and firmed my stance as if hoping to impress. “I am.”

“My husband works for you?”

Because of her willingness to honestly answer the question her husband would not answer, I paid her the same respect. “He works for my father.”

Her stare fell to the floor, and her voice trembled. “The man who killed my son?”

My head tilted. “Pardon?”

Eyes brimming with tears met mine. “Harry is my youngest. My eldest… was shot… in cold blood… in Russia.” She said Russia with an undeniable hatred.

Before I could stop myself, my mouth gaped open. I suddenly remembered the conversation when Seafoam was dying while giving birth. My eyes shut in remorse. “Yes. I believe it was my father who ordered his death.”

I waited for a slap, some sort of punishment for being related to a monster, but it didn’t come, so I dared to open my eyes. And what I saw was grave pain. Harold Thompson’s wife was experiencing a slow death, by the death of her son. “My son was innocent.”

Even though I knew his death was retribution for Harold’s betrayal, I replied, “I was too young to know the reasoning.”

“You are not too young now.”

I understood her innuendo.

Her fight was either a façade or the result of a hard life. “Will you hurt my Harry?”

I wondered if my mom ever loved me as much as this woman loves her only living child. With more regret, I replied, “We both know he is not your son.”

She clutched her stomach as if I had wounded her with words. “Not from here.” She patted her chest. “But here, he always will be.”

My throat tightened. Father had sent me to a foreign country without any hesitation. This woman was facing a hard criminal for her heart. “So far, due to your honesty, Harry is safe.”

“Babe, go back to bed,” growled Harold Senior.

She refused to acknowledge him and kept staring at me, her chin once again defiant and proud. “And how do I keep him safe, Russian?” Mrs. Thompson made it clear all options to obtain her son’s safety were available.

In Russian, I told Kirill, Adrian, and my men, “I’m going to rattle a cage.” Their hands slowly went to their guns. In English, I told Mrs. Thompson, “You look… hungry.”

Mr. Thompson stepped forward as his wife, again, regarded me in a fashion a married woman should not regard another man. My men pointed their guns at Harold. Harold’s men pointed guns at me. Mrs. Thompson and I ignored them all.

She licked her lips. “I am. I’m hungry for,” her eyes met mine again as she stepped closer, “revenge.”

My sight followed as she slowly reached out then caressed my crotch, much to the dislike of her husband, who was now being held back by his minions, yelling profanities at his wife.

Accepting her silent offer, I wrapped one arm around her narrow waist, tugging her slender body to mine. Face to face, I told her, “It must have hurt you, knowing he was fucking her and not you.”

Her hands seductively moved up my arms. I tightened my hold to inform her I was extremely willing to play her game. With her hands on my shoulders, open lips brushed mine. “Pure. Torture.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” screamed her cheating husband, only to be ignored.

She removed one hand to start lifting the hem of her dress. “Are you shy?”

Mr. Thompson struggled to get free from his employees, growling through his growing rage.

My balls started to ache with hunger as a bare leg caressed my pants. “No, never been known to be shy.”

The leg then slightly curled around me. “So, you don’t mind an audience?”

I thought of how many times I’d fucked on film. “Never has affected my performance before.”

Her eyes slid shut as if I were entrancing her. “It’s been so long since I’ve had it right.”