“Wait until the morning,” I tell her. “I’ve had enough of wrestling you in the shower for one day.”
“Yeah…I get that.” She stands docilely in the kitchen wearing my shirt. There’s something so doll-like and perfect about her. Those big blue eyes. The perfect bowtie lips. The way she presses and gives in and presses again. I have this weird fantasy about keeping her.
Wondering what it would be like to have her in the kitchen in my apartment, talking me into something she wanted. She’s the kind of girl who could wrap you around her finger and make you move mountains just to see her smile. But she’d do it all with that yielding quality. She’s not a ball-buster. She’d let you lead but offer plenty of colorful backtalk. Sulks and pouts and adorable tantrums.
If she were my girl, I’d probably give her anything she asked for. A steak dinner. A diamond ring. Someone’s head on a platter.
But, of course, that fantasy ship won’t ever sail. For one thing, Nadia lives in my apartment.
Nadia, my broken, ruined sister. The reason I’m here in the first place.
The reason there will never, ever be a future with me and Kateryna Poval in the same picture.
“Where did you learn English?” Kat asks as I take the food out of the microwave.
“America.”
“Oh yeah? Where?” She watches me closely. I know she’s trying to put things together.
I shouldn’t tell her anything. I definitely know better. But I already gave her my name. I want her father to know it before he dies by my hand.
“Chicago.”
“Oh really? My father lived there for a few years.” She says it innocently, propping a slender hip against the refrigerator, but I know she’s fishing.
“Da. He lived there until I burned his factory down and came for him in his own home. And then he ran.”
Her lips part, eyes wide and alert.
Damn. I shouldn’t have said that much to her. I don’t need to make this worse for her than it already will be.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You didn’t need to know that.”
She shivers but lifts her chin. “I doubt he ran from you. My father runs from no man. He is far more ruthless than you are, trust me.” She sounds slightly bitter, rather than proud, and something shifts around in my chest. An uncomfortable awareness that she might not be the crime lord princess I presumed her to be. Not spoiled like Sasha, Maxim’s bride, who was the daughter of the Moscow pakhan. Perhaps she’s suffered at her father’s hand as well.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask, tension running through me like a deadly weapon.
I catch that vulnerability that makes me want to slay dragons for her. She swallows then shakes her head. “He is a cruel man. He didn’t physically abuse me, but he’s never shown me love. I seem to disappoint and disgust him.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
I hate the man all over again. For a new reason now. Because Kateryna should never have been cast off or unappreciated. She’s a sparkling gem of a young woman–bright and funny and full of life.
The microwave beeps, and I turn from her to open it and pull out her steaming food. I grab a fork to stir it up.
“You’re right,” I admit. “He didn’t run from me. He left because the FBI was closing in on his operation. I guess I screwed up their investigation with my fire, which I regret.”
Again, I’m telling her way too much. It’s not like me to overshare anything at all. Not my feelings, not my plans, not details about my life. If things go south, she’ll have all the information she needs to come after the Chicago Bratva. But something about Kat makes me want to lay it all at her feet. To offer these pieces to make up for what I’m doing to her. How I’m involving her. What it will mean.
I hold up the container of food. “You want to sit?”
She shakes her head. “Standing feels good. I’ve been in that bed all day.”
I don’t apologize. What would it do, anyway? Instead, I shrug and stay standing, too. I scoop a bite of the pasta and white sauce onto the fork and blow on it, bringing it to my lips to make sure it’s not too hot before I hold it up to her mouth.
She lets me feed her, her gaze on my face. My dick gets hard when those pretty lips close around the fork. I can’t tell if she’s trying to be seductive or just can’t help it. It’s not just that watching her mouth makes me remember how incredible those lips looked stretched around my cock. There’s something hot about feeding her. Knowing she can’t eat except by my hand. My sweet, captive pet, captivating me with those bright blue eyes and her submission.