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Chapter 21
My room is a quiet refuge after my conversation with Sergei—but not for long. The second I lift my dress over my head, I hear the door open.
Cool air drifts in, ushering heavy footsteps. Alarmed, I cover my chest with my hands—but maybe the act is for show. Because I can identify my intruder by his scent alone.
“You don’t look very pregnant,” he declares, eyeing me up and down. “And I would like to think that I would notice.”
“Is that so?” I turn away from him, eyeing my reflection flung over the window. “I haven’t menstruated since I’ve been with you,” I admit, smoothing my hand along my abdomen. “And…I just know.”
His steps echo as he comes up behind me. “And now?” he wonders near my ear. “Do I treat you like a glass doll? No more sex?”
The scary part is how earnest he sounds. Curious.
“Would this really stop you?” I press my hand against my flat stomach as if shielding innocent ears from his answer.
“Maybe,” he admits, surprising me. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t touch you. Watch you.” He grabs my waist, guiding me against him. “I think I could enjoy that.”
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “I hate the way you toy with me.” I sound pained. Desperate.
“I hate the way you tempt me.” In retaliation, he runs his finger beneath my rib cage. Then he guides me to face him. “It’s like you’re a witch.” He laughs bitterly at his own descriptor as he startles me by sinking to his knees. “It’s the truth. You make me feel things, Rose… Devious little things. I’ve wanted to kill men before, but never like what I want to do to you.”
“Oh?” I shiver as his fingers brush the backs of my knees, urging me closer.
“Yes.” He nods, but against me, the motion feels more like a caress. “I want to destroy you. Devour you.”
“You sound like you want to hurt me—” I break off as his lips ghost my abdomen and flutter over my hip bones. My knees tremble. For stability, I sink my hands into his hair.
“Painfully. That’s how I crave you,” he whispers. “There is no sanity. No logic. When I’m with you, I crave every fucking thing I spent years telling myself I never wanted.”
Mischa Stepanov deny himself anything? “Like what?”
“More,” he admits, fanning his hands over my belly. “More than themafiya. More than crushing Winthorp. You make me consider a life beyond it all. And I never wanted to before.”
Because this violence and conflict are all he has.
“But I’m going to watch your belly swell, Rose,” he promises between heavy breaths. “I’m going to watch you grow with my child. And…” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “And maybe I’ll change my mind.”
“About what?” I say, barely able to breathe.
He looks down and rests his forehead against me. “About it all. Maybe we could leave Winthorp behind. Runaway to that tiny strip of the world I know you’ve dreamt about. The place where violence and death can’t follow you. Only those worthy of sharing such a paradise with. Anna, and Vanya, and Eli, and Mouse…”
“But you can’t,” I whisper, dashing the fantasy before it can unfold.
“Because this is who I am,” he agrees, but for once, it’s not a boast. “And one day you’ll take your pretty eyes, and your baby, and your sweet little cunt, and you’ll leave me, Rose. Men like me don’t keep women like you for very long. Ask Ivan.”
“Shut up.” I curl my fingers in his hair and pull until a growl revs in his throat. “Just… Just tell me that you want me.”
“Want,” he chuckles and stands, trailing his lips up my torso the entire way. When he reaches my lips, he claims them, groaning at the taste. “I need you, Rose—but not like your precious husband did. You don’t keep me sane, or human, or anything like that.” He kisses me even deeper, guiding me into his arms. Against my parted lips, he says, “You make methinkafter years of hating, and killing, and feeling. I can finally fucking think.”
And he makes that simple fact sound more powerful than any other commodity I’ve known men to chase.
Including any amount of money.
* * *
Iwake up in Mischa’s arms, but my first instinct isn’t to squirm, or endure, or count down the seconds. I turn the tables instead and observe him in the pale light of dawn streaming in through the window. He’s deeply asleep, lying on his back, with my body crushed to his side. Even unconscious, he’s possessive.
I can’t stop myself from touching him when he’s like this. He’s handsome while peaceful, irresistibly so. For a second, I toy with the idea of what his child might look like. Perpetually angry, with a head of wild hair? Would they have his dark eyes as well? Or maybe blue, like Eli’s…
