An almost.
A not-yet.
A temptation too dangerous to name.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words got caught in my throat.
I wanted to ask why he came through for me so many times in Colombia. Why he had been my unexpected protector, my knight in shining armor, despite all the mystery surrounding him. But here... he was something different. Cold. Detached. Almost unreachable. Had he always been like this, or had something or someone turned him into the monster before me?
The silence was suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides.
“I should leave,” I said, my voice shaky. “We’ll see tomorrow.”
I turned, hoping he would stop me. Hoping he’d ask me why I wanted to leave so soon, especially when just minutes ago, he had demanded I stay.
I took the first step.
Then the second.
But he didn’t say a word.
The weight of his gaze lingered on my back, but his words never came until I was nearly out of sight.
The next morning, Sofia knocked on my door, holding a black dress bag.
“Señor Petrov requests your presence in the main salon. Important visitors,” she said stiffly.
Visitors?
I frowned, shrugging into the sleek black dress inside the bag. It hugged my body like a second skin, sharp enough to make a statement but modest enough to avoid drawing unwanted attention.
At least the armor matched the battlefield.
When I descended the staircase, Misha was already standing by the grand fireplace, his figure carved from shadow and smoke. Black slacks, a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, a glint of silver from his watch.
Calm. Cold. Untouchable.
His eyes flickered briefly to me, a mere glance, before he turned back to the two men standing nearby. Strangers. No, not strangers. Bratva. Viktor and Nikolai, his consigliere and second in command.
Their eyes slid to me, appraising and calculating.
I felt like prey among predators.
Misha’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He extended a hand, and without a word, I understood.
“Come here,” he said softly. But there was no question in his voice. Only command.
My heart hammered in my chest as I moved toward him, slipping my hand into his. He tugged me closer, and I stood at his side, pressed against him in a way that left no room for doubt.
Possessive. Territorial. A warning.
Misha’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me against him.
I gasped, barely catching the sound before it slipped from my lips.
“We’re very happy,” Misha said, his voice deadpan.
The lie was smooth, seamless, even I almost believed it.
