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"We can't be," she says again.

"We are. Rule number one: never deny that we are mates."

"But I am engaged. I have a fiancé."

"No." My roar shakes the accessories on her desk and rattles the pictures on the wall. "Rule number two," I say. "Never — ever — put another man between us. Neither of us will ever have another."

"But we don't—we can't know—we can't know for sure."

I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, using my thumbs to tilt her head up. "Rule number three: never lie."

She opens her mouth to give me the lie again, but I swallow it, licking it from her tongue and letting her taste explode on my taste buds. Her tongue is hesitant, frozen like its owner, but that only gives me more room to claim as I lick along one side of her lips and then the other, tasting my mate at last, tasting every bit of her. Then her tongue tiptoes forward and meets mine. Her touch is the softest caress—tentative, hesitant, delicious. It's all I need to devour her. I take her tongue and twist it around mine, drawing it into my mouth, drawing it into my lair. She moans softly, but she might as well have growled. Her scent blooms. It's the softest silk pressed against my skin, the warmth of a hot sauna on Siberia's coldest day. It is everything. I am nothing without it.

I was nothing before it.

I pull her bottom lip into my mouth and bite, wanting to press my fangs deep into her and draw her blood, and she jerks back, startled. My arms wrap around her waist, caging her. We're still touching, every part of our bodies except our mouths. Her hands clutch me, her fists balled, and I'm just as possessive. My hands slide down to grip her ass, claiming the full curves of her. They fit perfectly in my palms. I can't wait to seat her on my cock, to have her legs twisted around mine as I claim and breed her. My tiger purrs, anticipating the cubs she'll provide us.

"You're my mate." I let the words fan against her skin, and she closes her eyes as if she's sunning herself in them.

"But what about—"

She bites her lips, pulling them in.

"Nyet." I stop her before she can say his name. "Don't speak of this man who has claimed you before me." Even though I'm not a man to give warnings. For her, I would give them. "I don't know this man, and I don't want to," I say. "He thinks because he put his ring on your finger, he dares to take you from me. That will never happen. You didn't recognize my name. So, I'm going to save you a web search. I am the vor of the Brusilov mafia."

She sucks in her breath so fast it jolts into her lungs. The air bubble rippling against our ribs.

"Our power reaches across Russia, from Moscow to the Pacific, but our homeland—our true homeland—is the Russian Far East. The Sikhote-Alin mountains, the forests stretching north toward the Amur River. That's where my family has lived for generations. It's a beautiful part of the country, but it doesn't forgive weakness. Neither do we. Anyone who fucks with the Brusilovs learns that lesson exactly once. So believe me when I tell you, little kitty, you don't want to identify this man you're engaged to. Were engaged to, past tense. Keep it to yourself. The man you're leaving behind doesn't matter now. You're a doctor. Save a life."

Her eyes widen as she gasps again and pushes away from me, and I let her go.

"You don't understand," she says. "I can't just pick up and leave for Russia. What about my family?"

She stresses the my. Is it wrong that I never considered my mate's family? I just always assumed that my family would become hers.

"You can call them from the plane," I say.

"Mr. Brusilov, I'm sorry. You don't understand. I am not getting on that plane. If you want to meet about our mating," she stumbles, bites her lip, plays with the side of her skirt, "…situation thing about being mates, we can discuss it, but I can't leave for Russia. My family is here in Minnesota. My parents, my sister."

My tiger wants to strike these people, the ones who would make my mate hesitate to join us in our home. She speaks from an unacceptable distance, even though it's only a couple of feet. I take a deep breath, but it doesn't help my patience as I only draw in more of her cinnamon scent.

"Your parents," I ask her, "are they true mates or did they settle?"

My lips curl into a sneer. "Like you were going to do?" Her hand goes to her neck. Her nails are clear and unpolished, with little white half moons. I can't wait to see her claws.

"They are true mates," she says softly.

"So are my parents," I say. My tiger leaps at the victory. "Which means you understand."

"Yes, I understand, but that doesn't mean—"

I cut her off. "How long before your father mated your mother? An hour, a day, a month?"

"Minutes. That's what they told me."

I take a step forward. She takes a step back. Our bodies argue, but they still dance in sync.

"My mother was in full heat." Her voice is shaky. "I'm not in it," she says. "Okay, yes, you triggered something."