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“Mina.” He drags his fingers through my hair. “Why are you so tense?”
I haven’t noticed how I’ve locked my muscles. Making a conscious effort, I release them one by one.
“Wasn’t it good?” he asks.
“Perhaps too good.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“No,” I reply softly. “Definitely not a bad thing.”
“Wrap your legs around me.” Standing, he pulls up his pants so he doesn’t trip over them and carries me to the shower.
Like every time after we’ve fucked, he washes my body and hair. He towels me dry and plants a soft kiss on my spine. Studying my reflection in the mirror as I finger-comb my hair, he announces, “We’re going out for dinner.”
“But we’ve been out for lunch.”
“That was hours ago.”
“Are we going with Ilya and Anton?”
His expression hardens. He walks back to the room and yanks open the closet. Flipping through his shirts, he says, “We’re going alone.”
I know better than to question him when his mood shifts like this.
“No,” he says when I reach for a pair of jeans. “Put on the dress.”
“That’s way too fancy.”
“It fits the occasion.”
“What occasion?”
“We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
He takes his phone from the pocket of his discarded pants, punches in his code, and turns the screen toward me.
The photo makes my skin crawl. It’s the face of a man whose features are imprinted in my memory forever.
“Recognize him?” Yan asks.
I swallow.
It’s one of the men who attacked me.
“Where did you get this?” So fast, I want to add. And more importantly, did he find out anything about Gergo?
He sweeps to the next photo, and I go cold inside.
It’s the same man. I know it instinctively, like a soldier would feel the presence of an enemy without relying on sight, even though the man’s proud sneer and vain features are unrecognizable.
They’re unrecognizable because his face is beaten to a pulp.
25
Yan
I can’t tear my gaze away from Mina where she sits opposite me in the restaurant. She’s biting her lip as she studies the chef’s recommendations. I should do the same, at least pick the wine, but I can’t stop staring at her from over the top of my menu.
I meant what I said at lunch. She’s the closest thing to perfect. In that nude-pink dress with the matching bag and shoes, she’s the prettiest woman I’ve seen. The crocheted cotton thread of the dress forms a delicate lace pattern that hugs her small body. If she shifts just so, I can glimpse her pink satin underwear. I got her a full bra and boy shorts with the dress in mind, but the modest undergarments don’t hide her round breasts or firm ass. The sight makes me hard. I can’t help but think about everything I want to do to her later.
With her platinum-blond hair gelled back and the makeup I insisted she wears, she looks like she belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine. The centerfold, if I strip her from that dress. Her blue eyes are even more startling with the smoky eyeshadow and eyeliner, and the pink gloss on her lips accentuates their lusciousness. The piercings and tattoo add an air of rebelliousness, spunk. She’s everything I’ve ever fantasized about rolled into one.
The total package. Feminine. Alluring. Intelligent.
Fucking deadly.
She’s everything. The real deal.
Too fucking bad she’s also the woman who framed me. I still hate her for the flippant brushoff, but not enough not to take her to my bed. Not enough not to want to keep her there forever. My fixation with her is too absolute. I love her strength and resilience. I love her brightness and sass. I love her touch. A stroke from one of those slender fingers, and I’m ready to go up in flames and fall at her feet in ashes.
She’s gotten under my skin and I’m helpless to prevent the pride and protectiveness she brings out in me. I want to keep her safe. I’m proud of how she’s handling the Dimitrov job. I’m proud just for having her at my side. It’s becoming more difficult to ignore that she didn’t choose the position out of free will—that she’s not sitting here because she wants to, but because I ordered it. Yet I can’t help but adore her. I simply hate her a little more for her lies and deceit. I should never forget that.
Who is the man you met in Budapest, princess?
As if feeling the heaviness of my question, she lifts her gaze. I lower mine quickly, pretending to read the letters that are floating in front of my eyes. I don’t want to give her more power than what she already has.
“Yan?”
Her voice is husky. It makes me want to crawl under the table, spread her legs, and eat her right here.
Get a fucking grip. “Yes?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
Concern pushes all my darker thoughts aside. Her appetite is on and off. Is she suffering from depression? The situation she finds herself in certainly merits some serious psychological shit, not that I’ve bothered with that kind of stuff before.
