Page 54 of Ruthless Love

My heart races, and despite the warm comfort of his hold, fear tightens my chest. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

His thumb traces my cheek, and after giving me a sweet peck, his hardened eyes meet mine. “Trust me, Evie. I do.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

AUSTIN

Evie thinks Dimitri spends weeks on end chatting up business deals in Europe, but I know better. The man’s got more surveillance on him than the president, the pope, and all the Kardashians combined. Most of which is covert, so I call in a few favors and pull a few strings, and learn the bastard’s been holed up at the presidential suite at the Gaylord.

It doesn’t take much to move past the perimeter guards in the hall. The lazy fucks need a smoke break nearly every half hour. When I ring the penthouse bell, I half expect a hotel butler to answer, but it’s one of his personal bodyguards. Alexei.

I don’t bother speaking in Russian. He’s seen me before, and to him I’m the American architect. Or the threesome guy.

“Dimitri?” I say, not adding any explanation at all for my unexpected presence.

Towering over me, the large man seems to be processing what to do, with his mouth oddly agape for the duration of his mental gears cranking. I wait politely. Finally, Alexei takes a few steps back, giving me the room I need to enter.

His Russian comes out slurred as he struggles with it, though even without the veil of a language barrier, it’s clear he wants me to wait. I nod my understanding.

When he disappears for a moment, I clock several wireless cameras installed in the corners of the ceiling, the same ones that seem to follow Alexei wherever he goes. Keeping in mind the far one that has turned in my direction, I force a lopsided grin on my face and wave.

A few seconds later, Dimitri appears, the hard angles of his face masked behind the charm of his smile, custom-fitted shirt, and designer slacks. He makes no pretense of hiding the shoulder holster or gun, which are an odd contrast to the small gold cross dangling from a chain around his neck. Which means the vile excuse of a human must have been on a video chat with his Russian Orthodox father. If there’s one thing I know about Dimitri Antonov, the last thing the man fears is God.

“Austin Byrne,” he says, the lift in his tone brisk but calculating. “This is unexpected.” He approaches, stopping a few steps from me, but his icy glare stays restrained. “You must be more than an architect. You must be a fucking bloodhound.”

“Today I’m a messenger,” I say, going through with a half-concocted plan that I’m only marginally convinced will work.

Summoning the remnants of my old life, I take the box from my pocket, holding it up for the split second it takes him to recognize it, before setting it neatly on the nearest table.

My own cold stare meets his sinister one before I say, “Chasing her is pointless. She’ll never marry you.”

His thumb scratches the long line of his jaw as he studies me. “Good luck keeping her. The next time she’s back in my arms—and she will be back—she’ll want nothing to do with you.”

I’m close enough for a forceful chop to his throat, but I’ve done what I need to do. My hand is wrapped around the door handle when I hear the cock of his gun, and a rush of adrenaline courses through me.

There are only three outcomes of this scenario. I know, because two of the three—begging or threats—always leave his enemies dead. So I opt for the third. The only one that anyone survived to tell about. And I follow it to a T.

Devoid of panic or fear, aggression or rage, I stay emotionless as I turn toward him, unthreatened as I stand there and wait. My breathing is steady, and I relax into the minutes until the gamble of my brazenness pays off. He re-holsters the gun, and like stepping back from a wound-up copperhead, I back away and calmly walk out the door.

Unsettled, I push my Harley well past the speed limit as I head back to Evie, eager to look at her and hold her small body close. At the first red light, I send the text I was asked to send, then shut off my phone, biting back my nerves and focusing on the road.

Austin: Checkmate.

Evie doesn’t waste a moment before slipping into my arms.

Knowing she’s still teetering on the fine line of trust between us, I don’t leave her in the dark, drowning in worry. As soon as I’m back at her place, I breathe her in as she relaxes into me. The slightest stammer in her voice betrays an otherwise calm conversation.

“W-well?” she asks, quickly adding, “Is everything all right?”

“Fine. He took it well.”

“Wait—what? Took it well? I thought you were just dropping it off? He’s supposed to be in Europe. I never thou—”

When the pitch in her voice climbs with each new concern, I cut her off.

“Evie,” I say calmly to ease her worry. “It’s fine. He took it back and didn’t say a word.”

“He ... didn’t?”

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