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Musa had already taken one shot at Lyon. He was exiled from the bratva now and probably hunkered down in Chicago, waiting for another one.
Lyon would have to deal with him, for more than one reason. First and foremost, Musa was a real and present physical danger to Lyon. But there was another consideration, one Lyon hadn’t said but which Kira had felt lurking about the edges of their conversation.
Kira knew the bratva, had been raised on stories of the rise and fall of its men, the exchange of power that happened when a new pakhan was appointed. The organization would never appoint a woman to its leadership — well, never say never — but Kira understood how it worked as well as any of its men and probably better than most.
Lyon would look weak now. This might already have been true given Musa’s killing of Kira’s father, but it would be even more true now that word was out about his attempt on Lyon’s life.
And that meant Lyon needed to act.
Soon.
It also meant they couldn’t afford to be enemies. Even if she ignored the feelings that still welled inside her when she was in his presence — pure lust, of course, but more dangerously, the remnants of feelings she’d developed in the fall — her future was intertwined with his.
She had a vested interest in ensuring his unchallenged leadership. And whether he admitted it or not, he had an interest in allowing her to help in whatever way she could.
The sun was starting to sink behind the city when she started back toward the hotel. She had no idea how many miles she’d covered. She was hungry and her feet hurt, but her head felt clear for the first time in a long time.
The suite was quiet when she returned, the lights still off, the living room dim in the twilight.
She removed her coat, and her gaze slid to the closed door of the bedroom Lyon occupied in the suite.
She hesitated, her heart warring with her head. The problem was, she didn’t know which was which anymore. Was it her heart that made her want to go to him? Her body?
Or was it her mind, the realization that the danger from the bratva was far from over, that they needed to work together, however much they might each want to avoid it?
She didn’t know. And a moment later, she realized she couldn’t afford to care.
She toed off her shoes and approached his door. She hesitated on the threshold for a long moment. Not too long ago, Lyon would have welcomed her into his bed. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
She opened the door and stood on the threshold. The draperies had been drawn against the sun, and dusky shadows darkened the corners of the room. The bed at the center of the room stood out in the darkness, the sheets kicked back to reveal him in all his glory.
The Lion lay on his back in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, the outline of his significant cock visible even from the door. An answering wetness dampened her sex, and she let her gaze travel over his body.
His dark hair was disheveled and begging for her fingers, his full lips slightly parted in sleep.
His hands were behind his head, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-thought, and her pulse quickened at the sight of his biceps, bulging even in sleep. She followed the line of his shoulders to his muscular chest, down over the washboard of his stomach, the line of hair that led beneath his briefs.
She lingered on the bulge between his legs, then took in the bulk of his thighs. Her body was already humming for him, primed by the way he’d licked her in the restaurant bathroom, bringing her to the edge of orgasm before leaving her, panting and desperate, on the counter.
She drew in a breath and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She made her way to the bed and slipped out of her clothes, pulling her sweater over her head and unfastening her bra, sliding the jeans off her hips along with her underwear.
Her heart raced, the prospect of Lyon’s rejection every bit as terrifying as the possibility that he would pull her into his arms. She thought of the way he’d looked in the restaurant bathroom, the hard shine in his eyes, the roughness of his hands as he’d parted her thighs, plunged his fingers inside her without preamble, the way he’d lapped at her like an animal dying of thirst.
Would she be greeted by that version of Lyon if he allowed her in his bed? Or would she find the passionate but tender man she’d come to know in the weeks before she’d abandoned him?
It didn’t matter. Their relationship couldn’t continue as it had since her return, not with the threats that still existed to Lyon, and by extension, the threats to herself.
She slipped into bed next to him and was surprised to find his eyes open when she looked up into his face. He hadn’t moved at all, and she wondered how long he’d been awake.
She stretched out next to him, the touch of his bare skin on hers like a match to the kindling that had been burning low ever since he’d stormed into the room at the house where he’d kept her prisoner.
They stared at each other through the darkness.
“This won’t change anything,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.
She looked up at him, resisting the urge to touch him, to push his dark hair off his forehead. “It has to, Lyon. It doesn’t have to change everything, but it has to change something. For both our sakes.”
She waited, hardly daring to breathe. Would he put her out of his bed? Refuse to ally himself with her again?
