Page 141 of Twisted Hearts

“Oh,solnishka,” he grins. “We haven’t evenbegunto scratch the surface on the ways I’ve stalked you for almost two years.”

My jaw drops as I stare at him. “I’m sorry, youstalked me?”

“Incessantly.”

I shake my head in disbelief, somehow unable to stop smiling at his man.

“You creep!”

He shrugs. “Guilty as charged.”

I look at him sideways. “Actually, that’s kind of hot, in a really fucked up way.”

“Right?”

I laugh, melting into him as he cups my jaw possessively.

“You saved my life,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “You saved mine.”

“Does that mean we’re even?”

“Not quite.”

I shiver, my skin tingling all over and my pulse skyrocketing as his lips crash down possessively on mine.

EPILOGUE

GAVAN

Three weeks later:

On a moonless,cloudy night, the five of us stand stoically in a semicircle around the condemned. Yuri takes a deep breath, sweeping his eyes over the rest of us.

“We’ll now take the final vote, yea or nay, concerning the execution of the condemned for high crimes against the other members of this Council, in direct violation of its guidelines.”

I’m first. My lips curl into a sneer as my gaze stabs through the darkness of the construction site to where a gagged Abram Diduch is tied to a chair at the edge of a foundation pit. He struggles with his bonds and his eyes bulge, his face white, like the piece of shit is actually trying to plead with me for mercy.

Fuck that. He’ll findnonewith me. And the fact that he’s shaking like a coward now that his plot to burn the High Council to the ground has been uncovered makes it even worse.

I fuckinghatefake toughness and bravado that crumbles under pressure.

“Yea,” I growl effortlessly.

Beside me, Viktor has a similarly merciless look on his face. And I don’t blame him. The firebomb Abram set in his hotel room, trying to frame Drazen, could have very well killed Viktor’s wife Fiona and their young son, Sasha.

“Yea,” Viktor snarls. “A thousand yeas.”

Yuri nods. “Also a yea from me.”

All of us turn to Marko as he leans heavily on his new cane, his face permanently scarred and shiny in places from the explosion that almost killed him.

“Yea,” he says in such an even tone that it’s spooky.

Anastasia is last. Her answer comes just as easily as the rest of ours.

“Yea,” she mutters, spitting on the ground for good measure.

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