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After the woman stunned me with the total, I handed her the black card and cringed. I needed a few outfits but was torn about what to think. Should he pay for it since he drugged me and held me for information? The other part of me, the independent, proud young woman my father helped shape, thinks it’s wrong. Apparently, so does the saleswoman, because she raises her nose at me while sliding the card.
Grabbing my bags, I thank her and turn to both my guards approaching.
“There has been an incident, we must go now.” The stern way Dmitry levels those words at me cause my chest to tighten.
The drive back to the penthouse happened in record speed, and when I was safely delivered to the penthouse, they took off. I didn’t get any information, only that there was an incident, and they were needed immediately.
That’s why I’m sitting here on the couch with a jar of expensive pickles Ilena had shopped for recently. These have more of a vinegar taste when they explode on my tongue.
The sun was high in the sky when we left earlier, but now dark clouds gather, shadowing the penthouse. In the silent room, thunder rumbles in the distance. Raindrops tap against the floor-to-ceiling windows. They intensify, creating sheets of water cascading down. The city’s lights are distorted through the rain, and I get up to peer down at the slick streets. My thoughts turn to Luka and the panic in the guards’ eyes.
What kind of life is this?
I can’t imagine being involved in the Mafia. How do they justify their actions? If they do at all. That night months ago connected our paths, and I wonder if being drawn to him was inevitable—a twist of fate.
I shake my head and lean against the window; it’s cool and refreshing against my heated skin. The elevator pings and draws my gaze away from the storm. I gasp.
Luka stumbles out, his black suit soaked in rain, and a large vest covers his white button-down. My gaze snags on the blood-stained sleeves, and I search for the source. There are none. That’s not his blood. I scrutinize him, goosebumps rising on my arms. Rage seethes beneath his gaze, and he whips the vest off, throwing it at the wall.
I jump, my heart hammering in my chest.
He keeps his eyes stuck to mine as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. I have no idea what happened, but I haven’t experienced this Luka. His eyes are wild, his knuckles clenched white, and power radiates off him. I pull away from the glass, thunder crackling behind me, and he follows my movement. I step to him, peering up through my lashes, and reach for his second button. Hot air brushes my cheek and his chest heaves.
I make quick work of the buttons, admiring his powerful, broad shoulders and chiseled muscles. The large scar from his near-death accident dips down, disappearing into his pants. He stands still, allowing my eyes to rove over him. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I skate my fingers down his chest, exploring every dip and all the ridges of his scarred skin. A hand on my wrist grinds my touch to a stop. His thumb traces a delicate circle on the inside of my wrist.
“You need to stop.” His voice is hard, and pain creases his face.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper.
He pulls me closer, nostrils flaring when I tug my bottom lip into my mouth. The heat from his body seeps into mine, and I suck in a breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I need to know.
Seeing Luka this way feels wrong, and my chest tightens. I want to take the pain away.
Rage glares back at me. “Nyet. My men were ambushed, and I lost a soldier today. He was eighteen years old; he wasn’t even supposed to be with us.”
His volume is escalating, and his grip on my wrist tightening. “All because Dmitry was playing babysitter this afternoon.”
Shock slaps me silent, and the blood roars in my ears. Because of me? Is he seriously blaming me?
I rip my wrist away from him and back up several steps. He follows each step I make, stalking me like prey.
“I don’t want to be here, Luka. You upended my life, remember? You must forget that.” Tears flood my eyes. “I’m sorry you lost someone; I really am. If you would part ways with me, then I wouldn’t be your problem anymore.”
His eyes widen, and he steps into me, reaching up to circle a hand around my neck. His thumb presses against my rapidly beating pulse. Several featherlight touches caress my skin before it stretches to pull down my bottom lip. Something akin to adoration passes over his face before it’s snuffed out and resolve takes over.
“Da. You’re right. Get your bag.”
* * *
Less than two hours later,Luka and I take the elevator down to the private garage, and he opens the door to a two-seater McLaren. I slide in, and Luka shuts it. Two men in suits approach him and exchange a few words that I can’t hear through the closed window. Luka shoves one hand in his pocket and strides around to the driver’s side. The engine roars to life, and we scream out of the garage, and onto the slick roads, causing the car’s backend to slide.
A queasy feeling forms in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t think it’s from the fast car.
When Luka said to get my stuff, I was relieved at first, happy to throw my few items in a bag. This is what I wanted, right? To get back to my life, my place, my job, and saving for university. But then why did it feel wrong?
I glance over to Luka, one hand on the wheel, the other on the center shifter. His eyes are trained on the road. He doesn’t look at me. I turn to look out my window in silence. Going home sure felt like leaving.
