Page 45 of Devil's Bride

“He had a rough childhood. Much rougher than any innocent child should ever experience, and that is what formed him into the ruthless man he is now.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I’m not trying to justify any of the terrible things he’s done; no one has clean hands, anyway. All I’m saying is, look deeper than the surface, and you might just see that ray of sunshine beyond the clouds.”

After the most unexpected talk time with Nina in the kitchen, the rest of the day flies by in a blur, and each second digs up more and more questions gnawing inside my head. Curiosity at its peak.

I seek to know more than Nina is willing to let on about Alexei’s childhood. Away from the watchful gaze of some of his men, I roam the mansion as far as my legs can take me, poking my nose in empty rooms in search of helpful albums, or anything else that would provide a further glimpse into his past.

All attempts prove futile.

By dusk, I am worn out, tired, and bored out of my mind.

After a warm bath, I go downstairs and Nina serves up a tray of tea and special biscuits, while I let my mind wander to things that could be happening outside the walls of the mansion. The thoughts don’t last very long. Barely minutes later, and the door flies open, ushering a light gust of cool air, and a dark silhouette figure crossing the threshold.

Dark hair, broad chest, and mussed hair. And dark eyes. Darker than I’ve ever seen them before.

The only form of illumination in the living room is the silver moonlight pouring in through the curtains, and even that doesn’t help the gruesome image in front of me. He looks like something out of a horror movie. Tea and biscuits forgotten, I practically jump off the couch with my heart in my throat, watching him make his way to me. Nina’s voice resounds in my head.

“… the boss is not a bad man.”

He’s not a bad man?

How is this not the representation of everything bad?

I’m shaking now. The good man has blood on his shirt and the promise of death in his eyes. This is one of those times when he makes the hair stand on my skin and somehow manages to make me forget everything else.

He spreads his arms, walks closer with the scent of blood and sweat, and tries to wrap his arms around me.

“I missed you.” The darkness in his voice rumbles at the back of his throat when he pulls me in. The rich sound is enough to stir butterflies in my stomach and make my toes curl in the carpet. Except, it doesn’t.

I cannot concentrate on anything else. He has blood on his shirt.

Shaking, I peel his strong fingers from my waist and take a large step away, creating enough distance to make his brows rise. My eyes flicker to the thick red on his shirt, and he follows my gaze.

The brows rise higher and are followed by a deep frown.

Without a word, he walks away from me and heads up the stairs.

I pace the floor, struggling to drown the million voices in my head, yelling at how wrong I am for making an assumption. What if he is hurt? What if it had been his blood on that shirt? It is possible and I could have asked.

But this is Alexei Vadim and there is a reason he earns the title, “Devil of New York.” There is no way that blood is his; not with arms as warm as his and flames of fire in his eyes.

Heavy footsteps sound in the quiet of the living room and my head snaps towards the stairs. Shimmering droplets of water on his hair form a narrow trail from behind his ear to disappear into his shirt.

Now, he looks normal, and sexy, like a model in a bathroom commercial, and it doesn’t help that he smells like spring soap.

The voices in my head grow louder and I know they are not going to shut up until I voice the question. Mustering courage, I march up to him, glaring like it has any effect at all on the tall man.

“That wasn’t your blood.” It is not a question.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, shakes his head, and stares me down. “No. It was not my blood.”

“I knew it!”

The ghost of a sexy smile curves his lips upwards. “And you’re happy because?”

“Happy, you said?” I push at his chest with a pointed finger. Needless to say, men like Alexei Vadim do not appreciate being pushed. As quick as a flash, the smile disappears. He grabs my wrists and yanks me closer. Close enough to see the angry storm brewing in his eyes.

“What the fuck is your problem, huh? The blood’s no longer there, is it?”

I refuse to be intimidated. I stand my ground. “And that suddenly makes everything better? If it was not your blood, it was definitely someone else’s. And it was your shirt. If you ask me, that doesn’t sound or look good. Care to explain what happened?”

---