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His eyes narrow slightly. “Anton told you to make me happy, or to please me, didn’t he?” he hisses.
I swallow, and I nod. Micheal’s strong jaw tenses.
“You don’t have to do anything, Katrina.”
“Except marry you.”
His eyes glint fiercely. But he doesn’t say anything for several long seconds. Finally, he sighs. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach growls, as if on cue. I blush. Micheal’s face is neutral.
“I’ll have my chef prepare some dinner. Fifteen minutes, downstairs?”
I nod. “Thank you, Micheal. That’s very kind.”
“It’s food, Katrina,” he growls. “And you live here now. You don’t have to thank me for food.”
“Yes, I… yes.” I blush at my own awkwardness. “I’ll get dressed.”
“If you need anything from…” he frowns. “Please tell me if you need anything.”
This is the unflinching, stone-cold man in charge of one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the country. The tremble I feel near him should be from fear and fear alone. It shouldn’t partly be desire. It shouldn’t be a forbidden heat that teases my very core.
“Food will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Micheal grunts. He shuts the door with a loud slam, leaving me red-faced and trembling. And again, it’s not all from fear.
Fifteen minutes later,exactly, I go downstairs. The chef smiles at me and introduces himself as Pierre. I sit at the kitchen counter, which is seemingly set for royalty. Pierre lays a plate carrying a perfect looking omelet down in front of me. He starts to walk away.
“Um… is Mr. Genovese eating as well?”
He turns back and shakes his head. “Mr. Genovese has retired for the night, miss.” He smiles and leaves the kitchen. I frown to myself and look down at my plate. I reach into my shirt and finger the locket hanging against my chest.
Why am I upset? Why am I sad that the man who owns me isn’t eating freaking omelets with me? I tremble. Perhaps it’s because the man who owns me has his claws in deeper than either of us knows.
Perhaps I might actually like that.
5
Micheal
I’m hard.Christ am I hard. In my office, I lean against the wall. My jaw tightens, and my hand drops to my pants. I cup myself and squeeze the bulge there. I groan and close my eyes.
She tempts me. She shouldn’t, but she does. I should be stronger, but I’m not. Clearly. This entire arrangement is fucked and wrong. And the age is only the half of it. Her being twenty years younger than me is enough of a red flag. But it seems like even Salvestro is overlooking the most important flag: she’s a fucking Korolyov.
Beyond anything else, she’s Anton’s blood. I understand that we have a truce of sorts. But the Korolyov clan are poison. They’re cancer. I see it plain as day in Anton’s eyes every time I have the misfortune of having to meet with him. He doesn’t see this as a mutual partnership. He sees himself as temporarily inconvenienced by having to deal with us. And now, he’s pushing for me to marry his goddamn niece?
I frown. It’s got “spy” written all fucking over it. And that little act just now? Her dropping her dress like she’s some kind of delicate innocent trying to play seductress? My scowl deepens. She’s a hell of a fucking actress.
Or it was real. That fear in her eyes when she pulled that little stunt was pretty damn convincing. If she’s pretending to be the reluctant trophy bride here, she’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance.
I close my eyes and take a breath. I need to get my shit together.
I had Pierre make her an omelet, but I wasn’t going to stay. Instead, I grab a bottle of scotch and a glass from the bar cart in my study. I storm over to my desk and sit. I pour myself a heavy glass and brood into it.
This is not good. I didn’t ask for this. Not because I don’t desire a girl like Katrina. I’m a red-blooded man, after all. Of course I fucking desire her. Any man who looks at a woman like her would. She’s gorgeous and young, and smooth. She’s alluring. She’s goddamn temptation.
I close my eyes and imagine slipping those panties from her. Or dropping that robe off of her body. I imagine taking her in my arms and pressing my lips to hers. I picture exploring her body, kissing my way down between the valley of her perky, full tits. I imagine myself pushing her legs apart and running my tongue over her tight little…
I groan and knock back the scotch. It’s been far too long.Fartoo long. After Marylyn, I shut myself away. I lost her young—far too young. Bellamy was barely five when Marylyn left me. A more accurate narrative is that she was taken from me. I scowl into my drink. I always think of it best as Marylyn cheating on me, though. That’s how she died. She cheated on me and forgot her love for me in favor of love for another: heroin.
