Page 40 of Inked Adonis

Maybe if I hadn’t been obsessively searching for pictures of Samuil on the beach, I would’ve found a few more shots of him with his fuckingwife. As it was, I only saw the one. I couldn’t see her face, but the blonde hair, the willowy frame…

It checks out.

I feel sick.

“Just say the word and Katerina’s gone,” Myles offers casually, like he’s suggesting where to order lunch. “I can make it look like an accident, too.”

The silence that follows stretches long enough to make my skin crawl. He’s actually considering it. The man I let touch me, kiss me, fuck me, is contemplating murder over morning coffee.

“No,” Samuil finally says, but his tone makes it clear he’s not opposed to the idea—just the timing. What inThe Godfatheris going on in there? “If we take her out now, it would start a premature war with the Andropovs. No, we’ll wait.”

He isn’t saying “no” to the murder of his ex-wife. Just “not yet.” How demure of him.

The conversation suddenly shifts into… Russian? Definitely Russian. The two men go back and forth, voices rising in volume until Samuil finally growls in English, “Fine. Shoot that fucker, Yakov, in the head and be done with it. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes.”

This isn’t some late-night movie marathon with Hope anymore. This isn’t us sprawled on her couch, drinking wine and swooning over fictional bad boys.

This is real.

And I’m so far out of my depth, I can’t even see the surface.

My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying me away from the voices that just casually ordered a man’s execution. The thick carpet muffles my retreat, but my heartbeat is so loud I’m sure they can hear it anyway.

I slip back into my room—my cell—and lock the door. As if a simple lock could stop men who discuss murder like normal people discuss the weather. I slide down the wall, wrapping my arms around trembling knees.

“I’m still alive,” I whisper to myself.

But for how long?

If Samuil decides I know too much or I’m more trouble than I’m worth, I’ll be as dead as this Yakov—whoever the hell he is.RIP Yakov. Better luck in the next life, friend.

My options are pathetically limited. Grams can barely walk to the bathroom by herself after her surgery. I won’t drag Hope into this nightmare—she’s too good, too pure for this darkness. Which leaves only one name on my sad little list of potential saviors.

Sergeant Tom Pierce.

The trouble is, even if I could get my hands on a phone, I can’t imagine ever calling him for help.

I look down at the faded scar—the barely discernible teeth marks that form a bracelet of bad memories around my wrist.

Even now, with death breathing down my neck, the thought of calling him makes me physically ill.

No, I can’t do it. If it comes down to a choice between my father and Samuil Litvinov...

I’ll take my chances with the devil I don’t know.

At least this devil is honest about what he is.

Grimacing, I slink off to the bathroom. Time stands still while you’re showering, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt, and I wouldn’t mind a few moments of purgatory to get my thoughts together.

The shower is tiled in obsidian, straight out of a supervillain’s design handbook. I try to pretend I don’t like how rich it makes me feel. Eyes closed, I just stand under the spray until my skin burns. Then I lather up with the body wash waiting in classy glass containers and scrub, hoping to wash away the smell of fear before it can sink into my pores.

I’m toweling off, wreathed in post-shower steam and actually starting to feel somewhat quasi-human again, when his voice slices through my temporary peace.

“Nova.”

I freeze, gripping my towel like armor. All I can see through the fog are his hands. The same hands that ordered executions. The same hands that have mapped every inch of my skin. His voice, when it purrs again, only reminds me that it’s the same one he uses both to banter about murder and whisper filth against the curve of my throat.

“What do you want?”

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