Page 32 of Inked Adonis

I’mpatient.

As soon as I’m sure Katerina is well and truly gone, I start jogging toward Nova, already crafting my approach. Will she tryto play it cool? Will she stumble over excuses? Will those honey-gold eyes fill with tears when she realizes I know what she’s done and who she’s done it with?

Only one way to find out.

11

NOVA

Katerina slithers away, which already makes this the best moment of my day.

Then Rufus’s ears perk up, his tail doing that slow-build wag that means trouble.

I follow his gaze and?—

Holy.

Hell.

I thought Samuil looked devastating in a suit. But watching him run, all rippling abs and sweat-slicked muscles? Pure torture. His golden-brown hair is wind-tousled, his sculpted legs eating up the ground like he owns every inch of Chicago soil he treads on.

Which, let’s be honest, he probably does.

I wave before I can stop myself, grinning like an idiot.

Then I remember I’m currently in charge of a horny Great Dane with impulse control issues.

I whirl around to face Rufus. “No. Humping.”

He cocks his head, and I swear I can hear the two brain cells in his skull bouncing around like a Windows screensaver. He’s my favorite being on earth, but Einstein he is not.

“Rufus.” I raise my fist in what’s supposed to be the hand signal for “sit,” but usually triggers something closer to twerking. He gets so excited that he can’t physically keep his butt on the ground.

Lady Luck has me in her sights today because, miracle upon miracle, Rufus sits. All the way down! Praise be to the heavens above!

I resist the urge to clap so I don’t rile Rufus up again. If the trend continues, he’ll tangle Samuil and me in his leash and scale the nearest tree like a grizzly bear. Instead, I offer him a steady stream of training treats. “Good boy, Ru-Ru. Good boy. Who is the goodest boy?”

His tail thumps harder and harder, letting me know Samuil is close. I turn with a smile, ready to showcase my latest training success?—

Until I see Samuil’s face.

I’ve never seen him like this before. Not in real life or any of the thousands of Google images I scrolled through.

The man striding toward us isn’t the same one who fucked me senseless yesterday. This isn’t the guy who made me laugh with dry observations about Rufus’s humping habits.

This is someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

I know that look. I grew up with that look. It’s been seared into my bones since childhood, encoded in my DNA: the expression of a man about to unleash hell.

Samuil isn’t just angry.

He’s murderous.

I take one step back and then another. I fumble for my phone even though I have no idea who I’d call to report this to—or what I’d even report. “Help, the billionaire who rearranged my insides yesterday now looks ready to bury me in his private cemetery"?

Rufus rises in front of me like a furry shield, his huge body uncoiling inch by inch as Samuil stalks closer.

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