Page 29 of Ruthless King
Some men don’t need rumors to inspire terror in their wake. Not when they leave a body of evidence behind. Mischa Stepanov’s body of evidence is terrifying even to those in this business with a mountain of bodies piled in their closets.
To men like me. I wouldn’t wish his wrath on my worst enemy.
Not even this snarling, feisty littletigre.
She kicks out with her legs, forcing me to apply more pressure to my knee to keep her down. The motion brings me closer to her, and I fully take advantage of this new perspective. Every time she flexes her thighs, a warm sliver of bare skin becomes exposed, brushing the back of my extended leg.
Heat I haven’t felt in a long time flares, forcing me to grit my teeth against it. And as if sensing the reaction, she goes limp again, refusing to move a muscle in defiance.
“I can tell you one thing,” I say, releasing her arm in favor of stroking through that mane of hair. She tries swiping at my hand with both of hers, but from this angle, she can’t reach.
And I have the lion’s share of exploration. From her hair, down to her throat. From that slender column of flesh, down to the top of her spine and a defined, muscular little shoulder.
Once again, I was wrong—she’s toned as hell, but her overall size helps to disguise the actual strength coiled in the lithe little body.
Strength that she hones in a vicious buck of her hips that nearly succeeds in dislodging me. Keeping her down requires more effort. I’m gritting my teeth, sensing a bead of sweat form on my temple.
For all this exertion, we might as well be fucking.
I adjust my weight to keep her restrained, and an ominous ripping sound issues from my sleeve. Sure enough, the entire goddamn suit gives way next with a metallic ping of a button flying off, landing on the floor. I have no choice but to shrug it off and toss it aside. I snatch at the shirt as well when the damn thing constrains my movements. Using one hand, I rip at the buttons until some of the pressure loosens.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell the woman. “Stop resisting, and I’ll turn you over to the hotel authorities. They’ll probably let you go with a slap on the wrist. Trust me, that’s the upside offer. Sorry to put a damper on your little revenge plot, but I’d rather not die today…”
I trail off as her eyes find mine again. So damn piercing. Though she still hasn’t said a word, it’s like I can clearly hear her voice echoing in my head. Sexy in cadence, shouting obscenities.
“You know,” I say in between pants. “It’s usually after we fuck that a woman tries to stab me.”
In another burst of strength, she contorts her hips, using her slightness to her advantage enough to skirt my knee and flip onto her side. I barely manage to pin her by the shoulders, easily maneuvering my weight on top of her. Skilled or not, she can’t fight pure gravity. I’m too damn heavy for her to resist.
And she’s so damn small. It’s almost too easy to have her immobile, my knees trapping her legs, my weight balanced over her narrow hips. Of all the thoughts to enter my mind, one of sheer practicality takes the cake—if we were fucking, she’d have to be on top. Otherwise, I’d crush her in this position. Break her.
But even now, she’s still resisting. Still fighting, her teeth bared, eyes darting around the room, anywhere but me. I don’t know what makes me brush my thumb against her chin. She contorts her neck and nearly takes the appendage off, snapping with her teeth.
Our eyes meet, and maybe that was my goal all along. They’re amazing, those fucking eyes. In a world where men only make eye contact to intimidate, women to seduce, grifters to lie. It’s been a long damn time since anyone has looked at me. Stared without a damn for who I am or what I might do.
To her, I’m not Donatello Vanici, a black-hearted son of a bitch with a past too chilling to escape. Or maybe I am. The way she rages silently, her chest heaving, cheeks flushed, eyes narrowing. Her reaction confirms my previous hunch—this is personal.
But not to avenge someone else.
“What the hell did I do to you, littletigre?” I murmur, stroking her cheek again though she recoils so violently a troubling cracking sound issues from her neck. The fact that she’s still trying to kick me assuages my worries of any serious injury.
But her reaction proves it.
“I can assure you that whoever you’re after, it isn’t me. I have never harmed a woman.”
Physically at least. Emotional distress could be debated by a handful of scorned lovers, but that isn’t her grudge. Now more than before, I’m sure of it—I would have remembered her, drunk, drugged, or not. Those eyes. This scent. That pouty, stubborn pink mouth. I would have recalled this lay. Her size especially. I’ve never met a woman so delicate, and—judging by the grunt I choke out as her knee slams dangerously close to its intended target—so fierce.
A part of me rails at the decision before I even let her go and stand from the bed. She scrambles into a sitting position, racing to adjust her askew dress. Her heavy breathing alone reveals how exhausted she truly is. That and the fact that she doesn’t come for me automatically. So, much like her newly christened namesake, she sizes me up, hunting for a weak point to pounce on.
And there are plenty. Keeping her in my peripheral view, I risk glancing down and hiss in irritation. She nicked me good with her knife, causing a splotch of blood that ruins this shirt and ensures Vin will get to collect on his bet. I managed to rip the top buttons on it, leaving it open and gaping, exposing part of my chest.
“Goddamn it,” I snarl, fingering the flopping lapel. “The one damn time I try to keep the son of a bitch intact…” I trail off, fixing my attention on the cause of the destruction.
Before my eyes, the littletigretransforms. Her eyes widen in alarm, fixated on my chest. Out of guilt for nicking me? No. I brush my hand over my left pec, and I know what has her attention.
A topic that not even a sexy little hellcat will ever get the chance to defile. I turn my back to her, forsaking the stupidity out of sheer, pathetic pride. Absently, my fingers trace the contours of a marking I’ve memorized every inch of by heart. My reason for being who I am now. For leaving the old Don behind.
This name is everything I stand for as a new man. A new person. Despite how drunk I get, or how many men like Mischa Stepanov shun me, never will I let myself forget it. I may have failed her when it mattered, but she’ll always haunt me. Always.
