Page 49 of Vengeful Embers

Me:I just never seem to have enough hours in a day.

Renfield:Are you texting while driving?

Me:No. Red light.

Renfield:Okay, get home safe. I’ll shut up for now.

I smile as the light turns green. It’s the same light where I met the Russian who altered my entire life in one night, where Damien Romanov nearly flattened me. My chest tightens at the thought. Of all the nights to replay in my head, that one still burns the brightest. I can still feel his touch burn a delicious, sensual heat down my skin. The apex between my legs throbs, and I can't help but move my hips slightly to press against the seam of my jeans. Fuck! Now I’m hot and achy again, and there is only one person I know who can dull the ache. But I’m never going to see him again, so a cold shower it is when I get home.

Twenty minutes later, I’m flinging things into a duffel with no real organization. Clothes, chargers, makeup bag. I’ll deal with it when I get there. I check my purse again, making sure I have my wallet, my ID, my folder for UCLA, and just as I zip the bag shut, there’s a knock at the door.

“Not now,” I mutter, dragging my wheeled suitcase behind me. “Molly, I love you, but I don’t have time for tea.”

I yank open the door.

And stare directly into a hard male chest clothed in a black cotton shirt.

A faint, clean cologne drifts off him, expensive and subtle. My heart skips a beat.

“That’s a pity,” the familiar deep voice says. “I enjoy our chats.”

My eyes travel up. “Konstantin?”

He’s casually hot in jeans, boots, and a shirt that clings to his chest like it was custom-stitched there. For the first time, I notice the tattoo curling over one bicep—a devil’s tail winding toward a pointed tip on his forearm.

“Holy shit,” I say, before I can stop myself. “How tall are you?”

His brows lift, amused. “Six-five.”

“Can you bend a little? I’m getting a crick in my neck just looking at you.”

He chuckles and reaches for my bag. “Can I take this for you?”

“Wait.” I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Moscow.”

“I was.” His eyes darken slightly. “I didn’t like the idea of you crammed on some bus to L.A., so I came to offer a more comfortable option.”

“You flew all the way from Moscow just to take me to Los Angeles?” I eye him suspiciously.

“I did.” He nods. “But I got here yesterday and waited until now to surprise you.”

I blink. I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. “Are you shitting me?”

He grins. “That’s such a weird American phrase.”

So I repeat it in fluent Russian, just to mess with him. “?? ??????????? ???? ?????”

Now his eyes widen. “You speak Russian?”

“My parents insisted. You’re right. Are you shitting me doesn’t have the same ring to it in Russian.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees, and then gestures to the hallway. “Ready?”

I nod, and I’m rushing toward the stairs when Konstantin calls. “Are you leaving your door open?”

Fuck! I stop and sigh. Jesus, I’ve been even more forgetful than usual lately. I turn and run back to the door, scratching in my purse to find my keys.

“Let me.” Konstantin takes them from me, his fingers brushing mine, and my heart flutters.

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