Page 68 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Heat climbs slowly up my throat.

His hand lifts to my jaw, thumb brushing once along my cheek before he tilts my face upward. His mouth touches mine—warm, controlled, infinitely more tender than I expected. A fraction of a kiss. Then another one, more demanding. He tastes like wine and winter air, and when a small sound escapes me, he hisses between his teeth. My hands slide into his hair, then his mouth brushes against mine again. Deep. Slow. Devastatingly thorough.

His other hand closes around my waist, pulling me closer. My chest arches up into his as my hands glide behind his neck.

“I think about you all the time,” he says, his teeth grazing down my neck. “About doing this.”

The words stop me more effectively than his mouth could have. My fingers tighten at the back of his neck. I should make a joke. I should step back. I should remember every reason I should keep my distance.

Instead I lift on my toes, trying to draw him closer.

“Sasha.” It’s barely a whisper, a name that slips out before I understand I’ve given it to him.

His eyes close briefly, forehead lowering against mine as a rough breath leaves his chest.

“Jesus Christ.”

The words sound dragged out of him, heat rushing to my face.

“I’m sorry, I⁠—”

“Don’t.”

His hand tightens once against my waist before easing again with visible effort.

“Don’t apologize for that.”

For a second, neither of us speaks. Then, quietly, “Say it again.”

My pulse stumbles. “Sasha.”

Something flashes across his face so quickly, I almost miss it. Whatever it does to him, he has to fight it.

We stare at each other, suspended. And then—impossibly—he steps back. His thumb traces once along my jaw before his hand falls away entirely.

“Goodnight, Tamara.”

His voice is rougher than usual.

I stare at him as he walks away down the hallway, broad shoulders disappearing into shadow.

My pulse is unsteady, mouth warm from his.

Somewhere beneath all of it sits the terrifying realization that I wanted him to stay.

21

I APOLOGIZE FOR MY FAMILY. (ALEKSANDER)

By nine-thirty Thursday morning, I’ve read the same collector security memo three times and retained almost nothing except the sound of Tamara calling me Sasha.

Plenty of people have used the name before. Igor, when he wants something. Mikhail, when he’s drunk or being sentimental, which is unfortunately often the same condition. Elena, once, a lifetime ago, from across a hospital room.

But Tamara said it like she hadn’t meant to give me anything. Like the word had slipped out of an unguarded place neither of us had planned to open. I told myself walking away was the right thing to do.

And I kept telling myself that all night.

Across the office, Mikhail drops into a chair with dramatic exhaustion.