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32
Kira walked next to Lyon along the waterfront, her hand in his. The bridge stretched between Brooklyn and Manhattan, and the lights from the city across the water cast jewel-like light onto its surface. Tomorrow they would be back in Chicago, and there would be no walking aimlessly outside. They were enemies of the bratva, Lyon on the brink of an execution order.
They would have to be very careful.
Lyon had taken her to dinner at a small Italian restaurant on 8th Avenue. The food had been delicious, and Lyon looked as scrumptious as ever in slacks, a black button-down, and a tailored jacket, but Kira hadn’t been able to truly enjoy any of it.
The call with her father had thrown her off-balance, his warnings echoing off the walls of her mind, reason warring with the truth of what was in her heart.
You’ve gotten too close…
She hadn’t bothered to dispute it. Shehadgotten too close. Her feelings for the man holding her hand in his had grown deep and complex through their trials, their long nights in bed, wrapped naked in each other’s arms.
Maybe it had happened when they’d gone to town in Lake George and pretended they were like any other couple. Maybe it had been when he’d stepped in front of her to shield her from Musa, or when they’d worked side by side to clean the destroyed house.
Or maybe it had been inevitable from the moment she danced with him on her wedding night, the moment he’d scooped her wet and breathless from the bath.
She didn’t know, but she didn’t like it.
“What are you thinking about,voronochka?” Lyon asked.
“Are you going to tell me where you went today?” Kira asked.
She didn’t blame him for looking puzzled. It was a silly question, one she hadn’t even bothered to ask when he and Alek had left that morning.
Now it seemed like proof that he was the one in control: still working in secret, still playing the game alone while she fell further and further under his spell.
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
She pulled her hand from his and crossed her arms over her chest. She was glad she’d brought her coat from Chicago. It was cold in New York with Thanksgiving only a couple weeks away, especially near the water. “Why should I?”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the pathway that wound along the waterfront until they were near the water’s edge. “Why shouldn’t you?”
She glared up at him. “You speak in riddles so you don’t have to answer my questions. So you don’t have to give anything.”
“So I don’t have to…” He sucked in a breath, and she could see from the glint in his eyes that he was angry. Good. It was better for there to be anger between them than whatever else she’d felt fluttering to life in her chest. She knew how to deal with anger, was accustomed to it. “Are you denying that I’ve worked to protect you?”
“I didn’t ask you to protect me.” She almost shouted the words, and Lyon glanced at the people sitting on the benches that lined the pathway.
He grabbed her elbow and guided her farther along the path, where there were fewer people. “You’re my wife.”
She wrenched her arm away from his. She needed to put distance between them, needed to get her head back in the game she was supposed to be playing. “And I’m supposed to be your partner. I’m an enemy of the bratva, of everyone I’ve known my entire life, and I have no idea what you intend to do about it.”
He stared down at her, his jaw twitching. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his windblown hair. He stuffed his hands in the pocket of his wool coat. “It’s not easy for me to trust.”
“And you think it’s easy for me? I’ve signed my entire life away, given it to you like the most expensive dowry in history. I’m supposed to trust you while I receive nothing in return?”
She expected him to react in anger. Instead he reached out, dragged his knuckles down her cheek. She had to fight against the urge to lean into his hand, to wrap her arms around his waist and press her cheek to his chest.
“I suppose we are both distrustful animals at heart.” He stared into her eyes and dropped his hand. “We don’t have many moves left to us. We either beg the Spies for forgiveness or I eliminate Musa and stack enough power in my corner that the Spies have no choice but to give me the title of pakhan.”
He was giving her what she wanted, and yet she didn’t know whether to be satisfied or terrified. Her anger at him had been justified, a reason to put more distance between them. Now what excuse did she have?
“We could run,” she suggested.
“Do you want to run?” He sounded mildly curious.
The Lion would never run. This she knew.
