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He had to ignore the memories of her, naked and panting as she straddled his hips, riding him, her succulent flesh in his hands, her pussy glistening as he lapped at her, his fingers moving through her slick channel as he tongued her clit.
“No. I’ve already sampled those wares. I have no further need for them.” She looked like she’d been slapped, but his satisfaction was short-lived when he remembered why he wouldn’t be taking her into his bed. Not because he didn’t want her, but because he didn’t trust himself to touch her. Didn’t trust himself to use her body without wanting to possess her heart and soul. “Outwardly, however, you will stand as my wife. You will fulfill your promise to lend your name to my control of the bratva.”
“And what of your promise to allow me a voice in the organization?” she asked.
“Dependent on your loyalty,” he said. “I think we can both agree you have much to prove in that department. I would be a foolish leader indeed were I to trust you with organizational details while that is in question.”
“How do you know I won’t leave again?” she asked defiantly.
“I don’t,” he said. “But I trust I’ve proven doing so would be an exercise in futility. We are both many things, Kira, but neither of us is prone to wasting time. Running would be a waste of both our time. I will find you, and next time you won’t return to the penthouse. Now, I’m sure you’d like to get settled in your rooms. As always, you may feel free to let Rurik know if you need anything.”
“And Zoya?”
“She’s here, ready to do your bidding as always,” he said.
She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more. Then she turned and made her way down the hall.
He watched her go, the impulse to go after her tugging at his chest.
It would be a mistake. She’d fooled him once: her beauty a weapon, her warmth a distraction.
It could never happen again.
9
Kira’s face flamed as she made her way to the living room. He wouldn’t be in need of her “wares!”
Howdarehe?
It had taken every ounce of control not to hurl herself, cat-like, at him, kicking and screaming and scratching. Her only saving grace had been her refusal to let him humiliate her further. There could be no worse humiliation than letting him think he’d gotten under her skin with his mention of their previous lovemaking.
She drew in a breath as the wall of glass in the penthouse’s living room came into view. She’d forgotten the magnificence of the view from this room. The lake had been a stormy blue-gray when she’d left Chicago in November. Now it was dotted with chunks of ice, stretched out like bobbing marshmallows all the way to the horizon.
She’d spent hours on the terrace beyond the living room, wrapped in blankets with the patio heaters on as the temperatures dropped, the view a kind of meditation. Now it seemed a sterile substitute for the rocky beach on Orcas Island, the wind whipping her hair, the cold stinging her cheeks.
Even the house where she’d been kept prisoner had been warmer. She’d only seen part of it on her way out, but it had character and history, like the house she’d grown up in with her father.
Loss moved through her like a wave, and she started up the suspended staircase to the second floor. She wanted to see the birds and Zoya, wanted to take a hot bath and put on clothes of her choosing. Maybe those small things would give her the illusion of being in control of her own life.
She walked past Lyon’s suite of rooms and was glad the doors were closed. She didn’t want to see the big bed where he’d consumed her, where he’d brought her body to life under his mouth and hands, where he’d held her close, like she was more to him than a tool to be used.
She quickened her steps as she continued down the hall. She hadn’t been in the penthouse for long before she’d fled to Washington, but she’d come to think of the room as hers. She hoped Zoya was there, waiting for her. She couldn’t wait to hug the other woman and tell her about Orcas Island.
But when she opened the door to her rooms, her mouth hung open in shock. Zoya wasn’t there, but not just Zoya.
All of Kira’s belongings were gone.
She’d left the room tidy, but her books had been stacked on the nightstand and the coffee table in the sitting area. Several wool blankets had been folded around the room, a picture of her parents on the nightstand, another of her father on one of the end tables next to the loveseat by the big window overlooking the lake.
And the birds. Also gone.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. What had Lyon done with Dimitri and Odette?
She backed out of the room, a vacuum of horror opening up inside her. Lyon had erased her from the penthouse.
From his life.
She’d been overcome with guilt when she’d left, but she’d loved him. She thought of all the hours she’d spent thinking of him on the island, all the times she’d replayed every moment they’d shared, the absence of him felt in her bones, haunting her dreams.
