Page 17 of Sinful Blaze

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Daphne pulls out her phone and checks her messages. “Ugh. She’s probably wondering what the hell happened to me—hey! What the hell?!”

Something possesses me and before either of us can blink, I’ve got her phone in my hand. I tap in my phone number, send myself a text, then hand it back to her. “There.”

“What’s this?”

“My number. And now, I have yours.”

“Yeah, but… why?”

Again, something alien to my nature possesses me. I pull her close and take the longest, sweetest moment to taste her lips, to caress her tongue, to just feel her.

Because, even with that lifeline tossed, I’m not sure I’ll ever see her again.

If I choose what’s best for both of us, I won’t.

“Goodnight, moya plamya.”

Daphne blushes. Nibbles her bottom lip. If she doesn’t stop, if she doesn’t leave, I’m dangerously close to driving her away and showing her just how large my bed is and how much time we can spend in it.

In the end, she makes the right choice.

“Goodnight, Pasha.”

Then she’s gone.

6

DAPHNE

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother these days.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. These days? Since when has she ever bothered at all?

Ophelia Hamish, lifelong silver spoon socialite, wife of the former president of Chekhov International, and mother to two beautiful daughters who’d rather have nothing to do with her, dramatically sighs and sets her literal silver spoon on the even daintier matching saucer. “I mean, really. This whole thing is utterly ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me.” I try to hide my mumble behind the tiny, gold-rimmed teacup filled with what I think might be chamomile.

But to my bad luck, she hears me.

“You need to apologize.”

I damn near spray the tea all over my mother. “Fucking excuse me?”

“Daphne Elizabeth! Please!” Mother glances around and shoots me her best scolding look. “I know it’s difficult for you to act like a lady, but I must insist you maintain some decorum. I won’t be publicly disgraced any more than you and your sister have already done.”

I wince. As much as I tell myself I don’t care, that one kinda stings.

“In any case,” she continues, “I’ve had many talks with the Ewings and they assured me that the wedding’s still on. Granted that you can swallow your pride.”

Now, it’s my turn to shoot her a scathing glare.

Under absolutely no circumstances, at all, whatsoever, am I “apologizing” to Sidney Conrad Ewing. For what? Not being sleazy enough? “You do realize, Mother, that he’s the one who left me?” I keep my voice sugary-sweet just for her benefit. “He can’t keep it in his pants to save his life. That’s hardly something I need to apologize for.”

She scoffs. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to put in a little more effort. Dress up a bit more. Wear those diamond earrings he gave you for your anniversary. Show him you?—”

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