Page 25 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Holy shit.A library with a glass case and what look like they could be first editions from Twain and Chaucer. I scan the shelves. There are a lot of Russian books with titles I can’t read, but also some classics, some contemporaries, and a couple romance novels.

But as I am about to climb a ladder to peruse the top shelves, I see movement across the room, through a glass door. I walk closer, peek through, and immediately have to swallow past the knot in my throat.

Tomas is shirtless, muscles expanding and contracting, shining with sweat, lifting weights on a machine facing the opposite wall of windows. Dear God. This man is … extraordinary. Muscular. Ferocious. Scarred.

I remind myself that I got up to talk to him because I need to ask some questions, and I’ve come this far. No turning back now. This door is lighter than the monstrosities I walked through a few minutes ago. It’s glass and metal, modern and out of place in this library, but I tug it open and walk through.

There are pairs of ellipticals, bikes, treadmills, weights. It’s a gym built for two, and with all the state-of-the-art equipment, he could charge for membership to this room alone. There’s a mirror that runs the length of one wall, and a solid bank of windows on the end of the room that looks out over the city.

When he stops pressing the weights and dries his face with a towel, I know he knows I’m there. He’s looking at me in the chrome reflection of another machine. He doesn’t look like he wants to say anything though, so I swallow past the knot in my throat and decide I’ll be the one to break the ice.

“Hey. Nice place.”

“It’s home.”

But it isn’t. It’s a place to live. “Home” is something altogether different. I think he’s forgotten that.

“Yeah. Well, it’s a nice one.”

He cocks his head. “I’m sure Hogan would’ve bought you any house you wanted.”

Now, he stands and turns to face me. Tall. Imposing. Closer, because I’m the one moving toward him. But at the mention of Alvin, I stop, and in lieu of a steel-reinforced shield, I cross my arms.

I don’t know what to think about Alvin. I still can’t believe how he was able to hide his true self and his ‘red room of pain’ tendencies from me. I don’t comment on him because I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed and feel stupid, hoodwinked. And I’d rather not think about it just yet. Especially not with Tomas.

“Anyway, um, I came looking for you because … I wondered if the police are going to want to talk to me and what I should say.”

Not like I can tell the truth without Tomas ending up in jail for a very long time. I don’t want that; at least, I don’t think I do. On the list of things I plan to ignore for the time being, the question of why I don’t want him in jail is definitely up near the top.

“It’s been taken care of.” He’s so casual, leaning a shoulder against a machine, still holding his towel and rolling it over and over his hands, half-smiling like we’re still in high school. And God, he’s just as beautiful as he was back then. More so, even. By the looks of him, he gave up sleep in favor of building his abs and biceps into statue-worthy specimens of muscle.

“Okay.”

Asking him how he’s managed to erase me from police interest won’t do any good. Plus, I can’t seem to think about anything other than the scars interrupting the perfect expanses of skin across his chest and stomach. That’s the only reason I move even closer, so that we’re almost touching.

“Can I ask you something?”

When he nods, I lift my hand and trace what is clearly a healed wound with my fingertip. His eyes go stormy and his tongue glides across his lower lip. I almost lose focus.Almost.

“What happened here?”

“I got shot. I was young. Less careful.” His voice drops low. “I made a mistake.” I don’t know if we’re talking about the gunshot anymore. “So many mistakes.”

I’m at my most vulnerable because I was very much looking forward to my wedding night and have waited for too long to remember since I’ve had sex, so I’m almost panting when he pulls my finger away from the bullet hole and moves it lower to his rib cage, sliding it along a three-inch scar.

“I got this when I was twenty. A guy in a bar was mouthing off. I mouthed back and he had a knife. He won that one.”

“You’re alive.” He’s slick with sweat, body hot under my finger, intoxicating me with his eyes. “I think you won that one.” Softer, after a moment of staring up into his eyes, I swallow hard. “Or maybe I did.”

Honest to God, it’s remarkable I’m able to speak at all. My entire body is throbbing, and one fingertip against his skin isn’t nearly enough when I have nine others tingling for attention. I pull my hand away because I can’t take it anymore and I wrap it around the back of his neck, urging him down…

So I can kiss him.

His mouth slides over mine, and he presses me closer with a hand at the small of my back so our hips line up. His lips are soft and full, demanding and hot. Delicious. His tongue glides between the seam of my lips and they part on my soft whimper. I’m not embarrassed at the sounds coming out of me.

I want him and I want him to know it.

But then my brain regains its claim on the oxygen in my body and I register that his hand creeping up my rib cage is more than I can handle.

---