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“I got too close, in too deep, and it almost fucked my life up permanently. No. I learned my lesson. That is never going to happen again. Never.”
“You wanted to know the reason I am the way I am? There you go. That’s one.”
“If you walk out that door,” I find myself snapping after him, “don’t bother coming back.”
He curses in Russian. Then, with a feral growl, he yanks on the collar. The breath catches in my chest and I start to see stars, colors melting together in the corners of my vision.
And then I see what’s on his face. Dark curls tousled on either side of his expression, the one I can’t believe. The one his eyes are shining with… is that actual affection? It can’t be.
“I’m going to say that I didn’t plan this. But I will do everything in my power to make your life a good one. I meant what I said earlier tonight, Shannon: as long as I’m alive, no other man will ever touch you. I will keep you safe. I will keep you happy. I swear it.”
“This is Rafael we’re talking about. I wouldn’t trust him to piss on me if I was on fire. The offer is bullshit, straight
He’s not wrong. But suddenly, staring my father’s killer in the eye, I don’t give a fuck. I don’t want peace and prosperity. I want revenge.
“Such a shame it’d be if something were to happen to her. Such a horrible shame. Does she know, though?”
Rafael was asking: does Shannon know that her birth parents are still alive?
Then he’s shoving himself inside of me. There’s a pang of pain before my body sighs and takes him in greedily. I’m smashed against the brick while he pounds hard, savage thrusts of his hips that drive me into the wall again and again.
“Being around you has been less… strenuous than before.” “Gee, thanks. Compliment of the century.”
He sighs and passes a hand over his face. “Perhaps I am,” he rasps under his breath. “Perhaps I am.”
“Can’t believe how fat you were as a toddler,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Like a little marshmallow.”
A dark note of pleasure thrums in me, followed immediately by a cringe. What the hell is wrong with me? Why is him being murderously possessive a turn-on?
His words feel like a slap in the face. Maybe because he keeps taunting me with the idea, the naïve but undying hope that there’s a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. That something good might come of all this badness.
“You’ve been lied to your entire life. Years ago, my father and your parents went to war against each other, and Andrushka won.”
“But I lied when I told you we killed them, Shannon. They are still living in Boston. Both of them are alive. That is why our marriage actually meant something: because you are still the princess of the reigning Irish clan.”
“It was their idea. Their choice. They didn’t want anything to do with a daughter who would be a Bratva wife.”
“Zero. You’re just a pawn, utterly disposable. We killed Andrushka to destabilize the Russians. You’re not worth the bullet it would take to end you.”
“As always, Bastien, very measured in your decisions. Very careful. You will give sage advice to your brother when you are older, I can see. However, don’t refrain from asking your brothers for help when need be, either. No man is an island.”
He has to be alright. He has to be. He has to be.
