Page 7 of Twisted Cage

A soft knock at the door draws our gazes and seconds later, Nikoletta steps in wearing the same dress she performed in. How the hell am I going to get her out of here without someone spotting us?

Her blazing copper eyes meet mine and she juts her chin, proud and defiant. And thankfully quiet. Dmitri’s gaze widens with recognition and slides to mine. I don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to so much as move; with one look, he knows to stay silent.

No doubt he’s already piecing together a plan in his head which is exactly why he’s always by my side.

We still need to get out of here before anyone recognizes her, because if we don’t, we’ll have a war on our hands. A cabaret full of men who’ll be all too willing to brave snatching her to claim advantage with the Romanoff family. I like to know my opponent and here, there are just too many unknown variables.

“Jacket,” I snap.

She dares to narrow her eyes on me, the little shit. “I don’t have one.”

“Find one.”

Silas comes around his desk and curls his hand around her upper arm. “Behave.” The word is barely audible, but punctuated with the way his fingers dig into her flesh.

I’ll slice his tongue out first. Followed by each and every finger on those bold fucking hands of his.

She drops her bag to the floor and steps out. Less than a minute later, she’s back with a cape.

A fucking cape.

Actually, that might be good.

Slipping it from her fingers, I wrap it around her, satisfied when the fabric swallows her whole, leaving very little skin exposed. Pulling the sides together, I cinch them in place with the belt. My lips brush her cheek as I lean in where only she can hear me as I draw the hood over her hair. “You’d do good to lose the attitude. The childish bullshit will only get us all killed or worse. You’re lucky I’m the one who bought you.”

She pulls back, hatred in her eyes. “So you can return me to my father? I’d rather die.”

My little bee. Feathering my thumb along her cheek, the band squeezing my chest ever since her father exiled her to Paris and away from me loosens a fraction. She’s lucky I’m the one who found her tonight. She’s angry now. Trapped. Her plan thwarted, but she knows, deep down, she knows with every fiber of her being, I’ll never hurt her. Her virginity will remain hers.

Cupping her neck, I bring her in where only she can hear me. “There’s so much you don’t know. Just know this. You’ll never be your father’s possession again, Pcholka.”

4

NIKOLETTA

“Where are we going?” My heel catches on the threshold of the back door and I stumble onto the cracked concrete steps leading down to a narrow alley. The scent of trash lingers in the air as it always does in the city, especially as the cold clinging from the winter fades away into the warmth of late spring.

With a firm tug, Konstantin whips me around to face him. He leans in, his face deathly serious. “Quiet.”

It’s the look I associate with danger, but after the way he found me, the way he looked at me and touched me—maybe that’s not all it is. Good. If he’s affected, I have leverage. “Not until you tell me where you’re taking me.”

Dmitri steps in, his gun firmly in hand, his eyes sweeping the area around us. “The best entry point is two blocks away near the five points. An ambulance and police cars one block over have everyone’s attention. We can slip right by, and no one will know.”

“Good. Let’s go,” he says with one quick jerk of his chin before dragging me along with him.

I yank my arm free, earning a harsh glare from Konstantin. A hazy light hanging from the back door illuminates his face and I stop breathing, stop hearing the sounds around me. It’s just him, the way he looks at me twisting me up inside, wringing out every forbidden feeling I try to hide.

But it’s there for him too, for the briefest second, I see it. Now I’m positive with him at my back earlier, tying my bodice into place, I felt it.

Truth and realization tumble in the space between us, leaving nowhere for either of us to hide.

He steps into me, looming over me, and in the light, I see just how much more silver threads his hair as it hangs in a tumble of waves, hiding his face. Two long years. The valleys bracketing his mouth are deeper. The wrinkles fanning from his eyes more pronounced. But my God, he looks even better than he did then.

Strong, cunning, and mine.

Looking at him makes it all but impossible to hold on to the bravado I’ve worn as an armor since the day I left him. Sadness and longing threaten to drown me right here on the spot, and despite everything I do to contain it, a broken sob slips free.

His grimace slips and his eyes sink shut. When he opens them, they’re glassier than before. He’s showing me his weakness for me. He always has. But his vulnerability to me has always been that of a godfather to his goddaughter. Not a man to a woman.

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