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Our bodies come together, and we move in a smooth rhythm, enjoying the slow ride. He drives me crazy with his mouth touching my skin—my lips, neck, and chest. I moan as my hard nipple slips into his warm mouth. I open my eyes in a dreamy haze, and he’s watching me with his mouth pressed against my skin. It leaves me breathless.
There’s no trace of anger in his passionate moves, only the fierce devotion of a man who would do anything to protect the woman he loves.
With each slow, deliberate thrust, I feel the past slipping further away, and I can’t imagine my life before I became his. It’s all replaced with an overwhelming sensation of being loved unconditionally and without suspicion.
My body tightens as I lose control. My thoughts fly out of my head, replaced by lightning sensations rushing all over my skin as I tighten around him and shake, staring into his eyes.
“Eden,” Nikolai moans my name as if it’s a prayer, and the sweet sound sends me spiraling over the edge again, tumbling into oblivion, where there is no darkness, only light.
I lie underneath him, giggling as joy replaces hurt. Nikolai whispers my name as his body pushes harder into mine. His cock spreads me wider and then fills me as I slip into a fantasy that I’ll try hard to remember when the world comes and finds us again.
As our breathing slows and the sensations fade, I cling to Nikolai, my head resting on his chest. My heart is at peace for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and the heaviness of hate has eased off it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “For making me forget that once we hated each other.”
“I can’t imagine not loving you, Eden.” Nikolai presses a soft kiss to my forehead as we lie there, wrapped in each other’s arms. For now though, all that matters is the warmth of his body against mine, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, and the knowledge that in his arms, I belong.
22
NIKOLAI
The morning passesas I sit at my desk, scrutinizing the pages of my father’s journals, searching for secrets hidden between lines of text about deals and threats. “Dammit,” I mutter under my breath. I keep returning to the journal with the missing pages, as if they’ll reappear. My fingertips run over the torn edges as my frustration grows out of control. I push away from the desk and pace the floor again.
Two weeks before Matvei’s death, Gennady notes a brief disagreement between himself and Zakhar. That’s not a big deal, but the name mentioned is—Raymond D’Artello. A member of the Lanzzare, he was picked to be my first kill.
10 a.m.—Zakhar opposes target choice. He insists it’s not the right move.
Was there a reason for Zakhar disagreeing with my father? I thumb through the pages again, hoping something will make sense. Maybe a written line will leap out at me from a page I’ve stared at before. If Zakhar was against killing D’Artello, then there had to be a reason. Was he a traitor back then?
But according to Vito Genovesi, Zakhar is the wronged one. My sworn enemy vouched for the honesty of a traitor.
Fuck this.I take my frustration out on the desk chair, shoving it out of my way. It spins and hits the wall.
“Something wrong?” Alexander stands in the office doorway dressed in a freshly pressed suit. He never looks like he gets his hands dirty. I didn’t expect to see Alexander today, but he’s made an appearance almost every day since the ill-fated wedding. When I ask why he’s coming here, he claims to stop by out of concern, but it’s more likely he’s checking up on me.
I slip the critical journal into the desk drawer.
Alexander has already seen it, but he is wise enough to say nothing.
“What do you want?” I ask. “Any news on Zakhar?”
Alexander walks over to the desk and runs his fingertips along the edge. “My intel alludes to a possible meeting here at the penthouse.”
I grin even though he’s not making a joke. “The possibility has been present for months. But I would hardly extend an invitation to a person who continues to use me as a target practice.”
Alexander eyes the liquor cart. “Then I recommend that you don’t meet with Zakhar.” He faces me. “He’s hard to trust.” Alexander cuts to the point, and the implication is clear.
“All the more reason for you to have eyes on him,” I reply. “Come back when you have something useful to tell me. He shouldn’t be able to make a move without us knowing. See that you do your task diligently.”
It’s evident that I want him to leave, and Alexander obeys my order, moving toward the door.
“Tell Dominika to find Eden and ask her to come to my office.” It’s ironic that the person I turn to is a traitor’s daughter.
Alexander eyes me, but no offhand comments are made. Trust is crumbling, and it’s too risky to even make small talk. I’ve heard too much, but not enough for it to be dangerous. He nods solemnly, then walks to the door.
Edenand I sit side by side on the couch with the office door locked. The journals from the crucial years are spread across the coffee table, and we huddle over them like archeologists who have discovered a priceless artifact that will alter history. Her soft hair brushes my cheek as we sit too close together, and only her complete focus keeps me from losing mine.
I flip through the journal and find another passage where D’Artello’s name is mentioned four weeks earlier.
