Page 10 of Hateful Vows
“Don’t stop on my account.”
My play partner startles and falls back on his ass. “Fuck!”
He gets up and turns around, noticing our spectator for the first time. When he looks back at me again and takes the state of my attire, dress bunched around my waist, legs spread and cunt glistening, he hesitates. But men are cowards.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he scurries away, leaving me unsatisfied.
And fucking pissed.
I jump up the desk and pull my dress up my body again, bending to retrieve my discarded panties and throw them in my small, silver clutch.
“You people can’t help but ruin everything.”
I’m about to open the door when his massive hand slaps on top of it. The veins on his thick, bare forearms, shift with his strength. His heady cologne of lemon and black pepper, made for seduction and vice, assaults my senses and I shiver. My body angles itself toward him; I don’t have control over it anymore. Not as long as he stays so close.
“I could ruinyou,vipera, if you asked nicely.”
With my head held high, looking at him down my nose even though he towers over me, I push him off, a hand on his chest.
“Fuck off, Ventura.” My words are weak, breathy and vulnerable, as I take in the corded muscles under my palm and the way his heart thumps steadily under my fingers.
“For what it’s worth, I would have made you come ten times over with that amount of time between your milky thighs.”
His breath skims over my cheek in a sensual caress. I ignore him, and leave, never looking back but feeling his gaze on me all the way out.
SIX
IRINA
We’ve been back in London from Kalliste island for a few days when Aleksei picks me up one evening. I don’t have time to change into something more formal so I throw a Burberry trench coat over my simple black dress and scoop Perceval into my arms before meeting him at the front of my building.
“What are we doing here,Lyosha?” I ask my brother as the town car moves through the streets and enters The City. Ventura’s territory. Despite their best efforts, Aleksei and my step-father never managed to hide anything from me. I know all about the peace we’re supposed to uphold and coming here is reason enough for us to get killed.
“We have an appointment.”
“With who?”
Aleksei gives me a sardonic look, then clicks his tongue, absorbed once more by his phone. The dismissal is clear and makes me want to throttle him. Perceval’s head butts against my chin. At least I can count on one man to be obsessed with me. I pet his fur and give him neck scratches, his loud purr calming me down.
When the car comes to a stop, Aleksei and I are ushered by our bodyguards to a nondescript building. Two burly men step forward as we move to the elevator, about to search us.
“If you touch her, I’ll rip out your throats with my bare hands,” Aleksei says calmly as he opens his arms to the side to let one of the security guards pass a metal detector over his body. The threat has my mouth dry but I’m very good at ignoring my own body. My jaw is set in a grimace as they pass the detector over the length of my body, then regard my cat with disgust.
“He’s just a cat,” I say.
The elevator ride is tense but short and when the doors open on the fiftieth floor, the view beyond them is breathtaking. High above the other skyscrapers, this flat should be the example of modernity, with straight lines and bay windows, but we step into a lavish home, with upholstery, luxurious rugs and extravagant art on the walls. Colours and gold drip from every corner, and fake mantles give the place an almost Parisian feel to it.
I drop Percy to the ground and he immediately disappears to explore.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Dante exclaims, arms wide open.
I can’t help but notice that he’s barefoot, loose linen beige slacks hanging low on his strong waist accentuating his muscular legs. The matching shirt he wears is half open, the intricate gold cross on his neck a mocking element to his relaxed attire. Aleksei and I look out of place in our formal black wear.
Everything about this place and its host screams frivolity.
Rounding the corner of a hallway, a woman in her forties approaches me and Aleksei with an unopened bottle of champagne and flutes. She sets it on the coffee table, a furniture piece that would probably belong in a palace of French kings—or Italians—and scurries away.
Dante opens the bottle with ease, the pop of the cork loud in the silence room. The air is so tense I suffocate.
