Chapter 20

When Mila leaves, I do my best to lose myself in the act of painting. It was weirdly easier when I had nothing and nobody else. When my life was empty, and it was all I had to think about, I could sink into the craft so much easier. It was my escape. Now, I don't want to escape life. I don't want to be the silent nobody stalking down the hallway.

I'm so lost in my work that I don't hear him until he's behind me. I turn much too late to cover the painting. Dimitri stands in a tight-fitting blue shirt, the top button undone, his hands opening and closing as though just seeing me makes his lust burn.

"That's beautiful," he says.

I look at the work—the faceless woman with brown hair, her hospital gown, and the baby in her arms. "It's just… an experiment."

"Well, keep experimenting."

He moves closer, then sweeps me into his arms. Every single time we do this, no matter how long it's been, it's got the fresh electric excitement of the first. I pull myself against him, forgetting all that stuff about being trapped, caged. I can forget it with him, but when he's gone, it makes me panic. So what's the solution? Never leave his side like the biggest clinger ever?

"You're right," he says after a passionate kiss. "It's time I stepped up. It's time I chose my path instead of picking the easiest one. My father is gone. We can make a difference."

"We?" I murmur.

He leans back slightly, cupping my face in his hands, two palms to two cheeks, like he wants me to feel his warmth, his strength. I feel so tiny in his hands. That should make me want to run, but feeling small is nice, like something big, bad, and dangerous is protecting me—my man's primal, deadly side.

"Do you trust me?" he says.

The small girl who found her mom, whose world fell to pieces, tries to scream, No! I can't, but that would be a lie. He saved my life. It goes beyond anything that's happened. It's just a feeling, a profound certainty that was born the first time I saw him. I can try to deny it all I want, but when I saw Dimitri Sokolov walking through the office, my podcast faded to silence, my heartbeat hammered, and my world changed.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Then you need to wait," he replies. "The day after tomorrow, we're having a party. I want you there at my side."

"At your side?" I say. "Won't that be too obvious?"

"We won't show any affection," he says, then smooths his hands down my sides, stopping at my hips. "It will be difficult, hell, almost impossible, but I'm tired of hiding and running."

He kisses me again, sinking his hands into my hips. It brings my body back to last night, technically, this morning. He lights me up just like he did then when all I wanted was for him to slip a little lower, a little closer to me, to grind inside and take me over and over.

"Is that painting of you?" he asks passionately.

I grab his arms and lean back, shaking my head on instinct. Then I remember what he said when we were half asleep. I remember the look in his eyes when I mentioned the morning-after pill after our super dirty steaminess.

"I don't… I never wanted kids," I tell him.

He's silent for a moment, contemplating my words, and then says, "Wanted. Past tense. Why?"

"I thought I'd be better off on my own."

"Past tense again," he says passionately. "What about now?"

"Do people normally talk about having kids one week in?"

"Don't try to pretend we're normal, Lia," he says with a wild look in his hard eyes. "The CEO and the cleaner. The Bratva boss and the art prodigy. You're almost half my age."

"I don't care about that," I tell him.

"I know. Neither do I," he smirks, "but we're not normal. So tell me."

"I can't think about the future or children."

"I thought the same." He kisses me on the lips. "Until you fired me up and made me see. We have to live, Lia. We have to choose to live."

"What are you saying?"

He hesitates. I imagine him blurting, I love you. What would I say? Would that make me want to run even more? Or would it make us feel even closer?

"I'm asking you a question…"

I gesture at the painting. "She doesn't have a face. She could be anybody. Me. Mila. Ania. Anyone."

I don't know why I mention Mila and Ania. Maybe because, as sad as it is, they're the only women I know.

"Not Ania," he mutters.

"What do you mean?" I lower my voice, though we're alone. "Is she… ill or something?"

"No, but she's too fragile. Too vulnerable."

"She's only eighteen. Give her time."

I don't know why I'm defending her with so much passion. I guess I feel closer to her after last night, as if I've got to take care of her or something.

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. "She's always been so… fragile."

"I was just making a point, anyway," I tell him.

"So when you were painting it, you weren't thinking about yourself?"

"Do you want me to have been thinking about myself?"

He clenches his jaw, and I know that's not the follow-up he wanted or expected. After a long pause, he says, "Have lunch with me before I head back to the city."

"You're not home for the night now?"

"I wish. I need to prep the function hall. The Sokolovs and the Petrovs in one place, with all our men… It could be fireworks. We need air-tight security."

"What about me? What do I do?"

He tucks my hair behind my ear, giving me a warm, intimate feeling. "I'll tell you when the time is right, Lia."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I mutter.

He drops his hand, walking to the tall library balcony window with his hands behind his back. He looks so powerful with his broad, strong back, his jacket tugging from shoulder to shoulder as if he could explode into action any second. "You said you trust me."

I walk up next to him, grab his arm, and look into his eyes so he has to acknowledge I'm here and see me. I wonder if that's why I feel so intoxicated when I'm with him. It's as though I've been waiting all my life to exist, and now he's here, with a snap of his fingers and that intense gaze, making me feel so real.

"Don't you trust me?"

"It's not about that," he says. "I promise I'll explain, but I need you to be ready."

"I am ready for anything." I let him see how serious I am. "I want to help and be a part of this. I can't just sit here and let you do all the work."

He leans down and kisses me again, pulling me closer against him. It's so difficult not to melt into his body, feel how hard he gets for me, feel his solid muscles and the rock-hard outline of his lust.

"Lunch?" I say, breaking off the kiss.

He smirks. "Worried we'll get carried away?"

He's right on one level. I'm worried he will, and then I'll be left here like the biggest dork ever, wondering what to do all over again—wondering if I'm good enough.

"I just thought you had work to do," I murmur.

A flicker of something like disappointment enters his eyes. I almost snap at him when I see it, but then he pushes it away, looping his arm around my waist. "We'll have to get you a dress for the party," he says. "Something befitting a Bratva queen."

I playfully dig him with my elbow. "I'm not queen of anything."

He slides his hand further down my body, smoothing it over my hip as we walk through the house together. I'm still wearing my shabby clothes, sweats, and a hoodie, spattered in paint, but he doesn't seem to care. In the large entranceway, I stop. "I should get changed."

He smirks down at me. "My queen can dress however she wants."

It's all a big joke, but my cheeks turn red anyway. "Seriously…"

"What is the king's woman if you're not a queen?"

"I can't be your woman at the party, though," I murmur, trying not to think of him and Mila together.

"You are my woman," he growls passionately, "and I'm not going to hide it."

His words send those tantalizing shivers dancing through me. My core pulses almost urgently as if my body is screaming at me to give in to the lust right here. "I do want to get changed, though," I tell him.

"I'll wait for you," he says. "Ania wants us all to eat together before I leave."

I head up the stairs, feeling his eyes on me, his gaze burning into me. Even walking out of his sight triggers a change in me, the voice whispering to be alone. Run. Find a way out. Now. In the bedroom, I get some jeans and a more presentable shirt, then walk over to the window, looking past the long garden, the walls, and the dusty desert. Even if I got out of here, where would I go? What would I do?

"Tell me what you're thinking," he says from the other side of the room, his voice deep and commanding in a way that makes me feel like he owns me, which should be a bad thing.

"Nothing," I whisper.

The floorboards creak as he approaches me, his footsteps heavy and confident. From behind, he wraps his arms around me, pressing his body against mine. I can feel his heart thudding high up in my back, his stiffness pressing against me. He shifts as though redirecting his stiff rod.

"What are you feeling?" he says, like he wants me to know just because he's hard, he still wants to keep this emotional.

It's like his body can't help it. He sees me, feels me, and he lights up. He gets solid. Ready for my…

"I've been alone for so long," I mutter.

"Me too."

"No, you haven't. You've had Mikhail. Ania. The Bratva."

"It doesn't matter," he snaps. "I was still alone. I was waiting for you."

"Okay, fine, maybe poetically," I murmur, staring out the window at the desert. This feels easier to discuss when we're not looking at each other. "But realistically… this is all new for me."

"Do you want to run?" he says, his tone getting darker.

"If I said yes, what would you do?"

His arms tighten around me. The trapped feeling is there, but it's warm and tingly. I sink against him, feeling his hard body, his security. "I'd ask why," he says after a long pause, but somehow, I know he's thinking more than that. He's thinking about taking me, locking me up, all for himself. I can feel it in his body.

"I don't want to run," I tell him. "It's more like… I want to want to. Like I think I should. I was determined to make my own way and be my own person."

"We're better together," he says passionately. "I was the same. I thought I had to be alone. Distant. Even with my brother. Our father called him the spare, and Mikhail never liked that, but it meant he got to pursue his dreams. That's why I felt alone. I was the only one with all that responsibility."

I gently slide my hand over his clasped ones. "Weren't you tempted to turn it down?"

"I could have run," Dimitri says, "but that would've meant abandoning Mikhail and the city."

"The city?"

He squeezes me tighter. "My father and I had a deal. As long as I did my duty, he'd let me enforce a ban on trafficking."

"So you gave up your own life so innocent people would be safe?"

"Don't make me sound like a hero," he says gruffly. "Before you, I never had a life. I never thought I'd be able to have one, either."

I turn, smooth my hands over his shoulders, and pull him into a kiss. He makes a groaning, almost surprised noise. "Come on. Let's have lunch."

"You won't run?" he teases.

I take his hand, smiling, letting go of all the dark, morbid, defeatist thoughts. "Not yet, anyway."

"Ha, ha," he says sarcastically, then slides his hand down my body to my hip, sinking his hand in that special way he has, grabbing more and more of me each moment like he can't get enough.