Page 38 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
I smile, slow and knowing. “Is it? Or is it about what neither of us is willing to say aloud?”
Her pen stills. I see her pulse jump at her throat. Tiny tells. Tells she’s usually better at hiding.
My own pulse matches hers, hammering against my ribs. Heat pools in my groin, the same heat I’ve been fighting since she walked in wearing that dress. My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending aware of her proximity.
“What would that be?” she asks.
I stand. Movement helps. Sitting still with this much tension in the room feels like waiting for a match to drop into oil. I drift toward the window, back to the glass, watching her reflection in the pane.
“That you see me more clearly than you want to,” I say. “That beneath your professional posture, you’ve started to recognize the man beneath what everyone else calls a monster. And it scares you.”
Silence stretches, not heavy—sharp. Like the space between an inhale and a scream.
She shifts in her seat.
“Is that what you think I see?” Her voice has dropped a note. Lower. Quieter. “A monster?”
“It’s what they all see,” I murmur. “It’s what they’re supposed to see.”
“And what am I supposed to see, Yakov?”
My name in her mouth. It hits hard. My cock hardens at the sound. I turn. She’s standing now, closer than I realized. The air between us feels charged, waiting for someone to breathe too loud and break the moment.
Sweat pricks along my spine despite the room’s coolness. The ache of wanting her is becoming a physical pain.
“Whatever serves my purpose,” I say. Truth, plain and unpolished.
“And what is your purpose with me?” Her voice isn’t clinical. Not entirely. There’s something threaded through it—curiosity, caution, maybe something warmer.
The question lands. I should lie. I’ve done it before. But she’s looking at me like she already knows the answer and just wants to hear me say it out loud.
“I don’t know anymore,” I admit.
She smiles, just a little. “I’ve complicated things?”
“You have,” I say, stepping into the truth now. “Every time you listen like you actually care. Every time you give me something back. Every time you look at me and seeme—not the animal the rest of the world created.”
She takes a step forward, subtle, but the scent of her hits me—vanilla and amber, expensive and understated. Like her.
“And how am I looking at you now?” she asks, almost too soft to catch.
I study her, every detail, every shift of breath, every inch of restraint she’s gripping like a lifeline.
“Like you’re scared of what you feel,” I say. “And not scared enough.”
Her lips part. I watch her tongue dart out to wet them—nervous habit or invitation, I don’t care which. My hands clench to keep from reaching for her.
“Maybe I should be more scared,” she whispers.
“Maybe.” I step closer, close enough to feel her breath on my skin. “Or maybe you should stop pretending you don’t want this as much as I do.”
Her pupils blow wide. I can see her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. One move—one touch—and we’d both be lost.
My hands shake with the effort of not reaching for her. The space between us feels like miles and millimeters at once. I can see her nipples peaked beneath the burgundy silk, know she’s as turned on as I am, and it’s killing me that I can’t—won’t—shouldn’t touch.
“We should sit,” she manages, but neither of us moves.
“Should we?” My voice is gravel.
