Page 110 of Scarlet Secrets

“Demyan!” Alina tugs at him, but he shoves her away.

He squeezes harder, and Ilya turns a funny color. “What the fuck are you doing, making a move on, my girl? Already, my son asks for hisdyadya.”

I shriek, and Ilya makes a strange sound, his feet beating the wall. I grab at Demyan and he goes to shove me, too, but I stand my ground. I wiggle between them. “Calm down.”

His eyes glitter as they find mine. “You protect your lover, Erin?”

“For God’s sake, Demyan,” Alina says.

I shove at him, and this time he releases Ilya and grabs me. “Are you going to strangle me, too?” I snap. “Your sister’s right there. We were playing a game, the three of us. So please calm down!”

Ilya grabs him and shoves him from me. “Nothing is going on, Demyan.”

The two exchange words in Russian, and then Demyan gives me a look like he hates me and turns on his heel, storming out of the room.

Alina hovers, lost, frantic, she starts to go after herbrother, then turns to me. But Ilya helps me and we all set everything back.

“Something harder.” Alina grabs a bottle of bourbon and three glasses, shakily pouring three full cups of it. I drink mine, ignoring the burn.

Ilya puts his hand on my arm, then takes his and drinks it down, refilling them all. He checks over Alina, his gaze taking her in and then back at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. You?” Then he looks again at Alina. “And you?”

She nods. And he just sighs.

“Don’t worry, Erin. I’m tough. Besides, it’s not the first time Demyan’s lost his shit and it likely won’t be the last.”

I think he says that to reassure me.

But it doesn’t.

It scares me.

Because if Demyan can lose his temper like that at his friend, what’s stopping him from doing it when it’s just me and him? Or worse.

What if he takes out his temper on Sasha?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

DEMYAN

Fuck everything.

I storm into my study and slam the door, stalk to the wet bar, and pull out the vodka in the freezer. There’s some in the wine fridge, and in the actual fridge there, but I want the good stuff. I want it cold and thick.

I want it to numb the burning that blooms in my chest.

There’s a glass on my desk, but I ignore it, throwing myself into my chair, and I just drink from the bottle.

The burning inside is something heavy and clawlike. It’s made of anger, jealousy, and frustration and it’s wreaking havoc, leaving a path of destruction behind it. Yet it’s not even remotely touching the burning.

Worse, I can’t figure out if it’s hot or cold, that burn, only that it’s there.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Of course I don’t answer myself because there’s no answer to that. How can there be? I’ve got a temper, yes. And I’ve come to blows with Ilya before, but not like that, not where I’ve wanted him dead. Not over a woman.

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