Page 50 of Wicked Pursuit

15

Iwake to the scent of breakfast. It takes my sleep-soaked brain a few beats to remember everything that’s happened in the past few days. The murder. The auction. The chase.

Casimir.

I open my eyes. The last thing I remember is falling asleep in the tub, buoyed by the water and held safe by Casimir’s body. Safe. What a joke. But, as I stretch and allow myself a few seconds to relish the ache in my body from the night’s activities, I have to admit an uncomfortable truth.

I do trust him. Not with my family. Not with my city. But with my body.

He could have gone about accomplishing his goals in a thousand different ways, and I don’t think I would have liked any of them. He’s aRomanov, for fuck’s sake. I never would have welcomed him with open arms.

I belatedly realize the shower is running and the room is empty except for a tray on the bed with a covered plate on it.

I could run.

He’d find me eventually, but I could probably get to Carver City before he caught up. Take refuge in my parents’ home. Confess all the shitty choices I’ve made lately. Let them handle my mess.

And maybe start a war that gets my fathers killed... or ends with Casimir dead. I should want that. He’s the enemy. Amonster.

But . . . so am I.

Maybe it’s time I faced that truth properly.

I pull the tray to me and pause when the movement doesn’t send strands of rubies slithering over my chest and shoulders. I press my hand to my throat, my stomach dropping as I realize the collar is gone. Relief. That’s what I’m feeling. Right.

To distract myself, I carefully lift the cover from the plate. It’s my favorite breakfast: eggs Benedict. And it’s hot enough that Casimir must have set it down seconds before I woke. I pick up my fork and poke the eggs. Hewouldremember my favorite.

Luke was always attentive. After the jewelry misstep early in our relationship, he seemed to delight in new ways to surprise me with his knowledge of what I liked. It makes even more sense now, knowing that he’s also Wolf, my fucking stalker. Or, rather, he’s Casimir—a combination of the two of them. Or maybe a different animal completely. That’s what I can’t quite figure out.

I don’t register the shower shutting off, but I sure as fuck don’t miss Casimir walking through the door, his skin glistening, a white towel wrapped around his waist.

“You don’t have tattoos,” I blurt.

“What?”

“What kind of Russian mobster are you without tattoos?”

He smirks. “One who can infiltrate any organization or association. My father chose to take a less traditional route with that shit. My uncle doesn’t agree, but I’m too good at what I do for him to argue.”

Too good at lying. Murder. Torture. I’ve heard the stories, just like everyone else. If Jovan Romanov is a boogeyman, the Mad Wolf is his pet, sent out when he wants to make an example of someone.

I take a bite of my eggs, but they taste thick on my tongue. “How am I supposed to trust you when you just told me that?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I glare. “You are insufferable.”

“Baby.” He drags his hand through his damp hair. “How many times do you need to circle the same fucking subject before you admit it doesn’t matter?”

“Trust is everything.”

“Agreed.” His Russian accent thickens. “When have I hurt you?”

That brings me up short. “Excuse me?”

“When. Have. I. Hurt. You?” He circles the bed, stalking closer. “Do you know what my uncle would have done if his wife fucked one of his enforcers in the middle of a bar where anyone could see?”

I register what he’s saying, but my fool brain clings to one point like a dog with a bone. “I’m not your wife.”

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