Page 23 of Twisted Tyrant


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LUKA

I ignore the stricken look on Natasha’s flushed face. I know it was a dick move to say those biting words, but I did it more as a reminder to myself than anything else.

I want...no, I need what I can’t ever have.

I signed up for this job to solidify my path away from my family.

But every time my fingertips graze her smooth skin, my resolve falters.

“Dima is having some dresses sent over for you to try on,” I say in a flat voice.

“You can’t make me do a damn thing,” she screams. “I’m not going to that wedding.”

I grip the doorknob, clutching it tight in my fist. “You aren’t my problem anymore.”

“Anymore?” She jumps up from the bed. “So, what, you got off on making me your little plaything and now you’re handing me over to the next deviant in your family?”

“Dima is a dick but he’s not a deviant. Unfortunately for you, since you seem to like it dark and dirty.”

Her eyes flash with defiance. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She’s so wrong. I know fucking everything.

I know she drinks a chai latte every morning before class — always hot, even though Miami is sweltering eleven months out of the year. I know she loves the Cuban sandwich at the Versailles Restaurant in Little Havana. I can’t understand why. They don’t use enough pickles, so it’s never tangy enough. And I know she spends a lot of time with her younger sisters, Anna and Elizabeth, doing activities throughout the city, like FunDimension and Tidal Cove. They also have season tickets to see the Miami Marlins, always decked out in their teal and black to support the home team.

“Think what you want.” I glower at her. “And for the record, I don’t give a shit if you go wearing a goddamn potato sack. You’re not gonna be my wife.”

I twist the knob and push open the door. Fury bubbles in my veins as I stalk into the kitchen and start preparing breakfast.

Damn them all — my father, Dima, and Ivan. The whole fucking bunch of them.

But there’s also a dull ache in my groin, the pent-up need for release that I just can’t seem to achieve. I tortured myself last night by not whacking it after making her come from the sting of my palm and the invasion of my fingers. I let that beauty of a memory loop through my mind all night, though.

And this morning...fuck.

I walked into the safe room to stop her from trashing the place. Instead, I gave myself a raging case of blue balls. Again.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face and grab the bottle of vodka from my freezer. I pull off the cap and take a long drink. The cool, crisp liquid slides down my throat. It feels good, but I’ll need a hell of a lot more than that to numb my mind.

And my heart.

The padding of bare feet behind me makes me swallow a groan. None of this was supposed to happen. Fuck, I shouldn’t have even been there the night of the weapons exchange with Ivan Resnov. It was supposed to be Dima making that deal.

Foolproof. That’s what I was told. Make the exchange, solidify our place at the top of the bratva food chain. And fuck Resnov while doing it.

How the hell did everything go so absolutely and exactly wrong that night?

I take another swig of vodka.

Dima is the reason Natasha is here right now, tormenting me with those perfect tits and gorgeous ass that I want to fuck like a savage.

I pound my fist on the granite countertop.

“Is the caveman having a temper tantrum?” Natasha snips sarcastically.

I ignore her. I will not even look at her, dammit. If I do, I know what will happen. And it can’t ever happen again.

I hate her.

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