Page 10 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“The houseplant?” he asks slowly.

I square my shoulders. “Yes. It’s not so strange. I treat him well; special plant food, soil nutrients, you name it. Enrichment is part of that.”

He nods solemnly, barely keeping it together. “You should take the same good care of yourself, Emery. Does this rival for your affection have a name?”

“Phil. Phil O’Dendron.”

This hurls him over the edge of control, and he bursts into laughter.

“I love it. Is he Irish?”

I fold my arms indignantly. “No, that’s the genus of the plant, a philodendron. God, you sound like Dante when you?—”

“No, you have me all wrong,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, just charmed. You’re wonderful.”

I don’t know how to respond, and we stare at one another for a beat. He holds the takeout bag toward me.

“I’m Leon,” he says. “And not a houseplant. Does that count against me?”

“Yes, but then again, Phil never brought me food.” I take the bag, trying to keep my tone light. “Are you some kind of vigilante Doordasher? You fight bad guys and deliver food in thirty minutes or less?”

“Something like that. Care to give me a tip?”

“Sure—how about, ‘wait for an order first?’”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

His laugh rumbles from his broad chest. He’s still not wearing a shirt, and I fail spectacularly to ignore his taut abdomen and intricate tattoos as I put the food on my kitchen counter.

It’s another dumb move, turning my back on him like this. But something in me wants him to stay, even if I’m afraid to admit it.

Leon is leaning on the doorframe, watching me intently. He shifts his weight through his hips, adjusting his stance, and I swallow hard.

“Bad guys come in a few different flavors,val’kiriya.” His voice drops as he takes a single step my way. “And so does ramen, apparently.”

“Yeah, but how?—”

“I read your bumper sticker and decided, rather than send the noods, I’d bring them myself. Seeing as I was already in the area.”

“You followed me?”

“Damn right I did.”

There’s an edge in his gaze, a possessive intensity that borders on overpowering. My pulse races as he studies me, his eyes lingering in a way that makes my skin feel feverish.

Oh my God.Obviously, nothing would happen anyway, but if Dante’s lackeys catch me withanyman in my apartment, let alonethisman, he’ll make my life even more miserable than it already is.

On the other hand, Dante is careful not to bare his teeth at anyone who might get the upper hand. I don’t think Leon has any such concerns; he looks like he would take apart anyone stupid enough to challenge him, and I doubt many would care to try.

Leon’s eyes darken beneath his lowered brow. He’s holding back, ready to break loose at the slightest provocation.

If he kisses me again, I don’t know what I’ll?—

My phone rings, the trill cutting through the tension.

Panic grips me. No one calls me this late except Dante, and it’s over six hours to LA from New York; his flight must be delayed or canceled. What if he’s on his way back here?

“Go,” I say. “You have to.”

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