Page 46 of Inked Adonis

Last night feels like a fever dream. The comfort I found in Samuil’s arms twists into something ugly in the harsh light of day. Because nothing has changed. I’m still his prisoner, and two weeks might as well be forever when your life hangs on a bad man’s whim.

If Samuil—or any of his lackeys—decide I’m a liability, I’ll disappear. No one will know what happened to the silly woman who vanished from Lincoln Park. I’ll just become another urban legend, another cautionary tale about trusting the wrong man.

And the worst part? The most dangerous part?

Now, I know what it feels like to want him. To crave his touch even knowing it could destroy me.

That knowledge alone might get me killed.

15

SAMUIL

Trust is the sharpest blade ever crafted, and last night, Nova sliced me open without even trying.

I can’t stop replaying it: her small fingers curling into my shirt, her cheek burning against my chest, the way she instinctively sought comfort from me—me, of all fucking people—during her nightmare.

Like I’m someone who knows how to be gentle.

Like I’m worthy of that kind of blind faith.

“Don’t expect anything from me,”I’d warned her.

Should’ve warned myself instead.

The memory of her vulnerability haunts me as I stare unseeing at quarterly reports. My coffee’s gone cold, my phone’s been buzzing with ignored messages for hours, and all I can think about is how easily she burrowed past my defenses.

Which means she’s either genuine in a way I’ve never encountered, or she’s the most dangerous player I’ve ever faced.

My ex-wife wrote the book on using innocence as a weapon. I’d rather cut off my own hand than be played for a fool again.

“You look like shit,” Myles observes from my office doorway. “Time to make a decision about the girl?”

I grunt noncommittally as I grab my coat and head for the elevator. But he’s right: I need answers. Need to know if I’m seeing clearly or if I’m just seeing what I want to see.

That means it’s time to pay Kat a visit.

I’ve planned this lunch like the tactical strike it is. Avec isn’t just Chicago’s hottest restaurant—it’s our old battleground, where Kat and I used to wage war between courses. Back when I was stupid enough to mistake her hunger for love.

My driver brings me to the front door of the restaurant, a gleaming facade of black glass and ornate gold. Chicago wind sneaks in the doors after me as I stride in.

The hostess recognizes me at once and hurries to usher me in. I choose my position with military precision: corner table, back to the wall, perfect sightline to the entrance. A general preparing for his enemy’s approach.

I sit and check my watch. 12:47 PM. Katerina will arrive at 1:15 exactly, because being fashionably late is part of her armor.

Around me, the lunch crowd swells, their chatter a dull roar that does nothing to drown out the thundering in my chest. Not nerves. Anticipation. For once, I’m not the one walking into an ambush.

She is.

When Katerina appears in the doorway, time stretches like pulled taffy. She’s wearing that red dress—the one that used to make my mouth water, my hands itch to touch. The one she knows makes her look like sin itself.

But something’s different now. Because all I see is calculation in every pleat and seam. The desperate display of a woman who’s lost her power and knows it.

She hasn’t spotted me yet. I let myself savor these last seconds before the battle begins.

Kat weaponizes her walk as she approaches, each click of her heels a bullet aimed at my libido. Her signature perfume hits first—that cloying vanilla-jasmine blend she wore throughout our marriage. The scent memory punches straight to my gut, but instead of desire, it triggers revulsion. All I can think about is Nova’s clean scent, like sunshine warming fresh-cut grass. Like something real.

“Miss me?” Kat purrs as she comes to a stop at the edge of the table.

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