Page 97 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“You’ve been watching too.”
“Since the first night I was allowed terrace access.” His mouth curves. “Great minds, Doctor.”
“I’m a quick study,” I say, echoing his own words back at him. “And I had an excellent teacher.”
A predatory flicker crosses his expression, approval mixed with dark amusement. “Three nights of observation. Same conclusion.” His voice drops. “Though I had additional motivation for mapping those blind spots.”
“Which was?”
“Getting to you.”
His fingers tighten around mine, his body leaning just enough to brush against me. Heat coils low and fierce in my stomach.
“Midnight, then.”
“If we’re caught?—”
“We won’t be.” The certainty in his voice should reassure me. Instead, it reminds me exactly how dangerous he is when he wants something. “I’ve been planning this since the night you left.”
“Planning what?”
“How to get you back. How to keep you.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “How to make sure you never have to choose between wanting me and your conscience again.”
“My room,” I murmur. “West wing. Third door on the right.”
“I’ll be there.” His voice drops to a rough whisper that slides under my skin. “And Mila?”
The way he says my name—like he’s tasting it—makes heat pool low in my belly. “Yes?”
“Wear the burgundy dress. The one from our fifth session.”
My pulse stutters. Of course he remembers. Of course he noticed the way it clung to my curves, the way I’d chosen it deliberately, the way his eyes had tracked every line.
“You want me to dress for you.”
“I want you to dress like the woman who chose to seduce her patient.” His eyes burn into mine. “Not the doctor who pretends it was an accident.”
“How do you even know I packed it?” I ask, testing him, though my voice comes out breathy.
His smile is slow, predatory. “Because you’re not the type to leave weapons behind, Dr. Agapova. And that dress?” His gaze travels down my body like a physical touch. “That dress is definitely a weapon.”
My cheeks are on fire. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of you.” The certainty in his voice makes my knees weak. “You packed it for the same reason you wore red lipstick today. The same reason you chose that perfume. You want me to notice.”
It makes my breath catch, my body pulse with anticipation.
“I should go,” I say, reluctantly pulling back.
He lets go, but his gaze stays locked on mine. The weight of it is physical. Claiming.
“Until midnight.”
As I turn and walk away, I feel it, that heat, that pull, that promise. His eyes never leave me. I don’t have to look back to know.
Behind the terrace doors, my pulse thunders. Three hours.
Three hours until I stop pretending this is anything other than what it is: complete surrender to a man who was never supposed to become essential.
