Page 33 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Alright,” she says.

Her hand in mine is laughably small. The second she’s back on her feet, she snatches it back, with a little frown my way, indicating in no certain terms:It was just to help me up.

Without a word, she follows me over to the picnic bench.

“I’m not doing a photo op,” she says flatly, as we near it. “So, if that’s what you’re after, then go save some other downtrodden under-fifty hobo.”

I eye her.

Did she not feel it? When our eyes met—the jolt to the marrow, the pop of fire in the heart. It wassgorayu ot lyubvi—a term Osip abused more than his fair share to get whatever girl he wanted that day. An old Russian term.I’m burning up for you.

And yet, that’s what it was. Hot attraction. Dangerous. All-powerful.

Not love and not lust, but something like both of those things. Something like flaming want, like desire—filtered down to its core element. Even if she is wearing a faded ripped hoodie, even more faded and ripped jeans, this Joy is beautiful.

“I mean it,” she says now.

“If I wanted you in a photo op, we’d be in one,” I tell her.

She pauses, glancing back at the crowd. Most have forgotten about us, but a few are openly leering. She can see it, too—what she’ll have to deal with if she keeps her pride and marches over there to finish her pizza.

With a sigh, she slings herself on the bench, and fishes out the remainder of her pizza slice from her bag.

I sit on the other side, eyeing her.

It takes a few seconds for me to get it. That, even as she eats pizza, there’s a certain dignity and grace to her that transforms the action.

More likely, it’s my cock speaking. With all the campaign business lately—meetings and interviews and events designed to satisfy the public’s moronic itching for a likable leader even more so than a capable one—I haven’t had as much time to satisfy my …otherneeds.

“You don’t joke around when it comes to pizza.”

“Would you?” She licks a stray globule of sauce off her bottom lip. “This is the first pizza slice I’ve had in months.” She makes a face.

I have to smile. “A miracle you survived.”

She doesn’t want to grin, tries to stop it. “My thoughts exactly.”

She eyes me. I eye her back.

“You don’t look like the typical politician,” she comments. A half smile as she nods at me. “Well played.”

I shrug. No harm in being truthful with her. “My campaign manager picked out the outfit. Decided on something more casual. ‘Man of the people’ vibes.”

Something glints in her eyes. It might be respect; it might be something else.

“You don’t look like the typical street person,” I say.

She stops eating. “Maybe I’m not.”

“No?”

She pauses, shrugs. “I’d like to think not, but when it comes down to it, I do live in a tent, so yeah, I guess I am.” What’s in her eyes isn’t hard to pinpoint now. It’s pure defiance. “Am I supposed to look dirtier?”

“Maybe you should ask my campaign manager.”

Her laugher is a surprise, high and clear and free, as if it doesn’t belong to her. “Yeah, maybe he’ll recommend I rub myself with dirt, use some fake blood, get a mangy dog, really tug on people’s heartstrings.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

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