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My perfect flower.
And the only woman who might keep me from burning in the fires of hell.
* * *
An inspection.
As my uneasiness continued to grow, my mood increasingly volatile, I’d demanded an inspection of the entire property, including the sanctuary. I drove like a crazed fiend, rolling the truck along the makeshift roads at an excessive rate of speed. While Diego remained mostly silent, it wasn’t difficult to sense his discontent.
“What?” I barked as I pulled near the area where the lions were kept. Aziza remained pacing near the fence, her patience waning at the same rate as mine. The last of the evening light was fading beneath the horizon, but I was able to see the scowl on his face.
“Does it matter what I say?” he asked, his tone far too casual for my liking.
“Are you trying to irritate me?”
“I’m trying to get you to spend five minutes to discuss business.”
Hissing, I jammed the gear into park, not bothering to cut off the engine. I jumped out, yanking the cooler into my hands, cursing in Spanish under my breath. “Maldito hijo de put.”
Of course he heard me. I’d intended for him to.
“You can call me whatever name you want, Kostya, but that doesn’t change the fact you’re distracted.”
“I have reason to be.” As Aziza approached, I reached into the cooler, grabbing the hunk of filet then tossing it in her direction. The lion had refused to eat, her anxiety over her cub’s condition keeping her riled. Emily had eaten little during dinner, her pensive expression uncalled for in my opinion. I’d exploded toward the end, my impetuous behavior frightening her all over again. When I’d forked the remaining hunk of rare meat, she’d shaken her head then slowly risen from her seat, not bothering to say a single word as she left the room, heading up the stairs.
I’d almost locked her in but had forced myself to refrain. The fire and ice of our relationship was keeping me on an edge that I wasn’t used to being on. That’s how much the woman affected me. Then I’d gone on a rampage, my horrific mood continuing. I’d smashed half my freaking office in a useless attempt at curtailing my anger.
“You have a single reason, and her name is Emily Shephard, daughter of Jonathan Shephard, the slime bag snitch I might add. Or did you already forget that there are about two hundred Bratva soldiers that might want to tear her limb from limb because of her bloodline?”
I clamped my hand around the top of the fence in order to keep from throwing a punch. “So what? She means nothing to me.” Alexei wouldn’t dare attempt to cross me. He knew I’d bring the wrath of God down on him within hours.
He laughed half-heartedly. “You can lie to yourself if you want to. That’s fine with me. However, you destroyed your office, nearly killed one of the soldiers for not answering you quickly enough during this ridiculous inspection, and you refuse to talk about your plans with the woman. What do you want me to think?”
“I don’t pay you to think.”
“Goddamn it, Kostya. I might not be your friend, but I’ve been around long enough, enduring thousands of your fucking mood swings that I deserve respect. You’d demand it of anyone else.”
“So you’re demanding it now?” I turned toward him, cocking my head. While I never admitted when I was wrong, things were entirely different this time, my head so far out of the game he should be concerned.
“Yeah, I am. What the fuck are you going to do about it?”
He had a way of confronting my bullshit that usually yanked me back down to earth. Fortunately, today was no different. “Have you set up the call with Ovachov?”
“I tried. He didn’t respond initially so it’s a wait and see.” He kept his cold, hard stare, muttering something under his breath seconds later.
I pulled away from the fence, longing to return to Emily. However, I sensed strongly that the shit was about to hit the fan and I needed to get my head out of my ass in order to prevent catastrophe. Somehow, I had to get her out of my mind, if only for a limited period of time. “I don’t like the way the call happened. Alexei certainly didn’t speak highly of the man.”
“Ovachov is a typical oligarch, capable of hiding not only his finances but most of the information regarding his identity as well. You know the fucking Russians.”
“That makes the uneasiness even greater.”
“You’re right in that there was something about his initial contact that bothered the fuck out of me, and I can’t put my finger on it.”
“As if he’s playing me?”
“Maybe,” he said, his body remaining tense, which wasn’t like Diego. “At least you’re starting to clear that haze of lust from your head. There’s something stagnant in the air, a stench that I can’t grasp onto.”
“That much I already know.”
