The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

I swallow hard. “As you’ve enjoyed pointing out, we don’t exactly run in the same circles.”

“Yes,” he says, in that low, rumbling voice. “And yet, not much escapes my attention…”

I try to squash the panic that wants to distort my features.

“You said your father’s a banker?”

Why did I have to pick banker? “Yes.”

Another long silence stretches between us.

I’m beginning to wonder if “enforcing” involves interrogation. Constantine could have had a career at Quantico, in an alternate universe.

I force myself to remain perfectly still. Not to speak, not to move, not even to breathe.

Finally, he shakes his head as if to dismiss me, scowling down at the paper in front of him. “What is this?”

“A simple intake form to screen you for mental illnesses.”

He chuckles mirthlessly, a sound that chills me to my core. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No, I don’t.” I swear it’s the first protest every damn one of my patients makes when I do the intake.

“This paper asks me if I hear fucking voices.”

“Yes.”

“Only a crazy person would hear voices, Clare.”

“Constantine, most of us would benefit from professional help at one point or another. This form only tells me where we should begin.”

I flinch when he reaches for the paper. He pauses, lifting those dark, heated eyes to mine. “You’re like a frightened little mouse, you know. So easily spooked.” He releases a breath as he slides the paper over. “I like that about you.”

He’s called me a mouse and a little bird, imagery that smacks of submission and fear.

I swallow hard. He likes how easily I spook?

I definitely don’t.

I watch as he glances over the intake form. His scowl deepens, and his eyes narrow.

I flinch when he barks a laugh. “This is bullshit.” God, there I go again spooking like a frightened filly. “You think these little checkmarks on a paper will indicate if I’m mentally ill?”

When he tips his head to the side, he almost looks boyish, for the barest fraction of a second.

“Not really, no. It only gives us a starting point.”

“Real, bona fide crazy people know how to lie, Clare, so well you’d never detect the slightest hint of untruth. Real crazy people justify evil so thoroughly, they’ve muted the semblance of conscience before they graduated grade school. Real crazy people revel in pain and equate power with pleasure.” He scoffs at the paper. “No tally of checkmarks on a page would tell you that.”

I’ve had it with his know-it-all attitude and scorn for my field of study. I’ve had it with the way he makes me fear the next breath I take.

I push myself to my feet, bend over the table, and reach for the paper. Quick as a flash, he snags my wrist, his thumb pushing on my pulse. At the feel of his warm, rough fingers on my skin, my heart skips a beat. My skin flames at his touch, and I’m consumed with an irrational, all-consuming need to run.

“Ah, ah,” he says with a cluck of his tongue. “You did it again, Ptichka.”

My voice is a mere whisper. “Ptichka?”

Holding my gaze with his, he drags his rough, masculine thumb over my pulse, almost gently. “It’s a Russian term for little bird.”

“Ah,” I say, feigning bravery. “The big bad Russian uses terms of endearment?”

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. Oh, God, I can’t look away. A flash of perfectly straight, white teeth and full lips makes me tremble, the unmistakable promise of destruction written in his features. He’s the type that would win your heart then tear it to pieces and scatter it like so much confetti.

I won’t let him.

I blink and pull my arm away from him. I feel cold without his touch, like someone snuffed the fire out and I’m left in a chilly, dark room.

It makes me want him to touch me again, and I hate that.

“You were saying I did it again. What exactly did I do?”

He leans across the table, straining on his chains. “Came close enough for me to touch you.”

“You overstep, Constantine. I’m your doctor.”

“No, Clare. I didn’t hire you. I didn’t ask for you. I never signed on the fucking dotted line. You’re not my doctor.”

I don’t respond. I’m not sure how to.

“I’ll tell you what you are,” he says, with a note of disdain I’m all too familiar with.

My temper ignites, and my hands clench into fists. Heat flares across my chest, and I heave a furious breath. I sit just close enough to him so he can see me, so he has to stare into my eyes, but not so close he can actually touch me. I’ve spent my entire life either being judged by the wealthy elite for not meeting their perfect criteria, or dismissed by everyone else for being wealthy elite. It’s a lonely, lonely place to be. I won’t let this asshole judge me.