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Finally she turns to me. “I have a meeting now. I’ll see you later?”
“I’ll come with you.” I start to move toward the door, but Zenya stops me.
“You don’t have to. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”
I reach up and touch her cheek. “You were nearly killed last night. Do you think your protector has anything better to do than ensure nothing befalls his princess?”
Zenya pulls my hand away from her cheek and glances at the other men. Most of them are talking among themselves. Only Mikhail is paying us any attention, but his expression is carefully bland as if he’s never had an opinion about anything.
“I’m used to doing things by myself,” she reminds me. “And don’t call me princess while we’re working.”
I pretend not to hear that. “So you weren’t going to take Radimir or Stannis or any of the other men with you today if they’d survived?”
She turns toward the other men. “Well, I was, but I can take someone—”
I catch her by the elbow and draw her back to face me. “What’s really bothering you? Are you worried I’m going to take control of the meeting and not let you get a word in?”
“I should hope not,” she says indignantly.
“Then what is it?”
Zenya pins me with a glare. “I’m not sure how long I can rely on you before you abandon me again.”
“I’m not going anywhere, I swear it. You lead, and I follow.” I spread my hands and glance down at myself and then back up at her with a smile. “I’m all yours.”
Zenya glances at my chest. My hands. My shoulders. Her gaze goes a little unfocused, and I know she’s remembering what it felt like to be beneath me on that sofa last night. Touching me. Seeing herself wrapped around me in the moments before I put that blindfold on her. As she sat in my lap with the aftershocks of her orgasm coursing through her, she felt for herself my undeniable reaction to her.
I’m everything she needs.
Her muscle.
Her protection.
Her man, in all the ways.
And she’s just so very needy for me.
I dig my keys out of my pocket and nod toward the door. “So, shall we go?”
Zenya nods but doesn’t move.
I smile wider and watch her watch me playing with the keys in my fingers, slipping my middle finger into the metal ring and flipping the key over my knuckles. “I’m following you, angel. You’re the boss.”
“Oh—right.” Zenya walks quickly to the door, and I follow her with a grin. It’s just so delicious making my niece flustered.
Zenya’s meeting is on the other side of town at a private club belonging to one of the Belyaev family’s oldest associates, Bohdan Adamovich.
At that time of day, the main bar of the club has only a handful of drinkers, some with cups of espresso, others with glasses of whisky, who probably haven’t been to bed since the previous day. Work hours are unconventional in the Bratva.
There are only men here. It’s always just men in places like these, unless a woman is serving the drinks. Our lifestyle isn’t welcoming to women in charge or kind to them either. As Troian’s daughter, Zenya walks in a halo of protection almost everywhere she goes, or she’s supposed to, anyway.
Protection and interest. Irritation ripples up my spine as I notice how every man in the room is staring at my niece.
Sweet little Zenya Belyaev is finally eighteen. Old enough to wed.
I hang back for a moment so I can gauge their reactions to her, and nothing I see makes me happy. I step up behind her and cast an angry glare around the room. I recognize many of the men and their eyes widen as they see me.
That’s right, you fuckers. Kristian Belyaev is back in town, and Zenya Belyaev isn’t looking for a husband. Being with Troian’s daughter means that everyone will know I’m back in thePakhan’sgood graces. Word will spread everywhere by tonight.
