Page 24 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
“I can,” he said simply.
Anger rose, too small against a wall like him, yet fierce just the same. “This isn’t—” I stopped because I didn’t know what this was. A hostage situation with benefits? A rescue that never ended?
What were we?
He watched me for a heartbeat, then took my hand—just my hand, palm to palm. The warmth of him pulsed up my arm, steadying my heartbeat and my breath. Then, as if he had been reading my mind all night, he said, “You’re mine.” It was matter-of-fact—like he was stating the weather. “No one touches what’s mine.”
The words should have sent me running. Instead, heat flooded my chest, a frightening, traitorous relief washing through me so quickly my knees went weak. I hated that it felt like safety. I hated that it felt like home.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whispered.
“Mmm,” he hummed as his sharp gaze swept over my features.
When I remained silent, he curled his strong hand around the back of my neck.
“Then decide it,” he murmured. “Out loud.”
As I stared at the scar that cut a pale line along his jaw, I thought about the hand that had covered my mouth in the alley so I wouldn’t scream, and the same hand cupping the back of my neck like I was made of something precious.
Then, I thought about the envelope of red notices on my counter, and the way seven hundred dollars had felt like a miracle in my purse. And I thought about the way the knife had felt when it pressed against my throat, and the way it had looked glinting on the ground when it wasn’t at my throat anymore.
I didn’t say the word. I didn’t have to. Instead, I turned the key and let him in.
My apartment was small enough that his presence filled it, heat and gravity and the sound of my own pulse in my ears. He took his coat off my shoulders, draped it over the chair, and the domesticity of the gesture undid me more than any threat could have. When he reached for me, I went willingly, the fight in me melting into something hungrier, needier, truer.
After removing my jacket and placing it over his, his cold hands went up under my sweater. He brought me close to him and one hand cupped my lace-covered tit.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my mouth.
I couldn’t. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a decision any longer. There was no choice to be made. It was a current in a wildly rushing river, and I was already swept up in it.
Chapter 15
Maksim
Business came first. It always had.
Even with Sofia’s taste still on my tongue, even with her scent clinging to my clothes, I sat across from Boris Volkov and Igor Popov at a table that cost more than most people made in a year, and I reminded myself of the order of things.
Boris swirled his wine lazily, leaning back in his chair like a man without a care in the world. His talent was the same as always: charm sharp enough to cut steel. He didn’t need fists or blades. His tongue was a weapon, and tonight, he was wielding it like a pro as he held the floor.
“The numbers work,” Boris said smoothly, switching from Russian to English as easily as he breathed. He leaned back in his chair as if he were entertaining children instead of negotiating international arms deals. He spoke with his usual charm, outlining terms and smoothing egos. “Our friends in Eastern Europe are satisfied. Popov has the funding, we have the transport, and the diplomat”—his eyes slid to me briefly—“has made assurances.”
Popov preened, every inch the self-important oligarch. His smile was small and smug, the kind that always made me want to knock a man’s teeth out. He was dressed in an immaculate and expensive suit, rings glittering as he lifted his glass. “Gentlemen, this deal will be the foundation for much more. Arms are just the beginning. Connections breed opportunities—never forget that.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I’d been taught long ago to show nothing at the table. My job wasn’t to charm or negotiate. My job was to make sure every man who left this room stayed alive until the deal was done. I was the ever-present reminder that if words failed and tempers flared, blood would suffice.
But my silence didn’t protect me this time.
Because Popov’s smile shifted. “And speaking of connections…” He set down his glass with a quiet click, his eyes finding mine like a hunter finding the weak link in a herd. “I’ve been hearing a name, Maksim. Sofia Rodríguez. A bartender, is it?”
The air around us thickened, wrapping around my throat and choking me.
Boris’s eyes flicked to me again, sharper this time, though his mouth still curved like nothing was wrong. “Rumors,” he murmured easily. “People like to talk. When it comes to Maksim and women, they love to invent stories.”
Popov chuckled. “People talk because they notice. The girl has been seen with you. Repeatedly. Some even say she’s caught your attention.” He leaned forward slightly, the predator behind his eyes gleaming. “That could be a problem?”
My fingers curled under the table and my jaw flexed. Problem. That word, from his mouth, meant a liability. A weakness. Something to be cut out before it festered. Though he phrased it as an innocent question, it was nothing of the sort.
