CHAPTER FOUR
“Women. Always wanting what they can’t have, eh?” Viktor Chapeyev knows about the shooting and Everly’s role in saving me. He always knows.
At fifty-five, he’s still just as intimidating as the first time I met him as a boy of twelve. Same white-blond hair, same black eyes, and same charming smile. A great many have met their Maker after seeing Viktor’s visage. Sixteen years later, none of that has changed.
“She’s spooked from Petrov’s handiwork and wants me to take self-defense classes with her,” I explain.
Piercing, black eyes assess my words. “She knows nothing?”
“Less than zero,” I mutter as he passes a book to me.
“I’m interested in selling this,” he says.
I turn it over and read the title. The Secret Lives of Kings. “Royalty,” I say, nonplussed.
Besides the implication of the title, there are only three copies of this 1835 tome in the entire world. When it was published, kingdoms came tumbling down, because it created such a stir. Newspapers, pamphlets, and posters copied the scandalous truths of those in power, and it had gone, for lack of a better term, viral.
If I truly ran this store as a business, I’d be gobsmacked right now.
“Viva la revolucion,” Viktor says with a smirk, and so begins information dissemination. “It’s a fairly recent regime change, though the family is an old one. Hence…” He pats the book.
Before Edward Snowden revealed what he knew and the entire world became aware of the far reach of the NSA, the Bratva embraced technology, the easy flow of encrypted information from continent to continent. Now, many—including me—have returned to the old ways, with the occasional use of technology to help.
“Ah, yes. How long have they reigned?” How much time do I have?
“Not long—two months.” A month to study my prey and formulate a plan. Then a month to execute and get paid. Standard.
“What are they known for?” What’s the crime?
“Parties, community service, and lavish spending.” Prostitution, intimidation, and bankrupting their citizens.
“Sounds rather common, don’t you think?” Method of execution?
“Not at all. However, I read that the prince avoids feather pillows. Fear of birds or something like that.” Smothering… A very personal vendetta the financier has against this prince, then.
“Hopefully, someone will help him conquer it. In the meantime, I’m more than happy to purchase this book from you—for a fair price.” I accept.
We go through the motions of haggling and settle on a price.
“You drive a hard bargain, Roman.” Viktor nods. “You know, it’s not good for a man to be alone. As your friend, I feel it’s my duty to give you some advice.”
Warning sirens blare in my head. “And that would be?”
“Go out with Ms. Andrews.” He waves a hand in the air. “Be a young man in springtime.”
“It’s autumn,” I say flatly.
“Whatever the season, no one is guaranteed anything but death.”
My death or hers? “I appreciate your advice, but—”
“No buts. Find out if your Ms. Andrew would prefer a bouquet of four roses or seven.”
I clench my jaw, my fists, and hold my entire body perfectly still, even as I want to smash in his face. In Russia, an even number of flowers signifies death and is brought to funerals in groups of four, six, and eight.
Even I remember the custom, despite my lack of attendance.
He’s threatening Everly with death, but for what reason? I’ve assured him she knows less than nothing and I’ve agreed to the deal. “The attention might be unwanted.”
“The attention will be welcomed. People will wonder if they never see you out and about.”
Message: My cloistered life is not acceptable anymore to the Bratva and Viktor is delivering the news himself. For that, I am thankful, but at the same time I am furious with my family.
They want me to blend in, while all I want to do is disappear once I pay my debt to my grandfather for not executing my mother when she showed up, unannounced, with me in tow. For giving me a life and attention when all that my father showed me was death and indifference. Not that my grandfather is innocent—far from it.
But he’s not a megalomaniac like my father. And he believes family comes first. Always.
I force my jaw to relax and bare my teeth at him in a parody of a smile. “I’ll ask her to dinner Friday night, before class.”
“Very good, Nikolai. Very good.” With another tap on the cover of The Secret Lives of Kings, he leaves my shop, whistling.
I pick up my phone and dial the number I’ve memorized, but never used.
“Hello?”
“Everly? This is Roman.”
Silence and then, “Did I leave something behind?”
“No.”
“Did you forget that I didn’t order anything this week?”
“No.” Yes, this is a perfectly normal conversation to have with the woman you want to spend more time with. Perfectly, bloody normal.
“Then I’m not sure… Do I owe you money?” she asks, and I want to bang my head against the nearest wall.
“No,” I bark into the phone, and then take a deep breath. “I would like to invite you to have dinner with me Friday night before our class.”
“Oh,” she breathes.
Is this a good oh or a you-had-your-chance-but-I’ve-moved-on oh? “I could collect you around six?”
“Collect me?” she asks, clearly bewildered by this turn of events.
“Pick you up at your place,” I clarify.
Silence again. I drop my head into my free hand, positive she will say no. “That sounds fine. My address is fifteen Magnolia Way—it’s an old house split into a duplex, so I’m B. See you in a couple of days.”
“Bye, Everly.”
She ends our call first and I stand there, head in my hand and phone pressed against my ear. There’s a scratching sound at the front door. I straighten and slip the phone into my pocket, right beside the envelope Everly gave me.
Peering out the display window, I find the little cat waiting and move to open the door. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
I kneel, scratching the cat under the chin. The bugger flops to its side, demanding more attention. I shake my head. “Come inside. I’ll feed you.”
Whoever rented the shop before me installed a cat door in the front, but I had it blocked off. Perhaps this cat is used to coming here. In any case, I re-open the tiny door. “Not because I like you. I just don’t want to be bothered with letting you out,” I say as I stand and step back.
The cat races inside, and I lock the main door before following it to the empty storage room. “If you’re to stay, then I expect you to pull your weight around here.” Pausing as it eats, the cat looks up at me. “Kill the vermin, yes?”
Of course the bloody thing doesn’t respond, so I leave the room and head to my office, grabbing The Secret Lives of Kings along the way. After a few hours of research on a prince that would make Joffrey from Game of Thrones look like an angel who dispenses love taps, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes and stretching.
The cat jumps onto my desk and then into my lap. Absently, I pet the creature and it starts to purr. The sound calms me.
“In less than two months, I will end a man’s life,” I murmur in Russian to the cat. “Will you let me pet you then?”
If Everly were to know the truth, and I knew with absolute certainty she would be safe, would she want to be in my presence again? Or would she look at me differently, seeing only the monster and not the man?
Then again, maybe the man never existed in the first place.
After two days of unbearable waiting, it’s finally Friday afternoon and I’m getting ready for my date with Everly. Unsure of what to wear for an evening of dinner and kicking bad guys’ arses, I dress in my usual suit and pack a gym bag with a second set of clothes. I tuck my trainers in last and zip it closed.
Koshechki, little she-cat, as I call her jumps up on the dresser, staring at herself in the mirror. I hadn’t intended to name her, but it was easier than calling her it… or so I tell myself.
“You are a vain animal.” She turns up her nose at me, and I grunt. “Very. Vain.”
I adjust my tie and then forego it entirely, leaving my top two buttons undone. One last look in the mirror, and I run a hand through the front of my dark hair, then smooth it a little.
“Blyad,” I mutter. It doesn’t matter. None of this does. Once I’ve satisfied the powers that be by dating, I’ll move to another city, so Everly will remain safe and can’t be used as a pawn.
Sharp nails of fear scrape at my insides at the thought of never seeing her again, but I ignore the pain. It’s more important that she remain safe. That she remain alive.
Everly is standing outside when I park beside the curb. With her hair in a loose bun, she’s wearing a pair of ankle boots, black trousers, and a light blue sweater. The sweater and trousers cling to her curves, highlighting everything I lust after.
Her eyes widen a little when she realizes I’m the one in the Porsche. I do find it amusing that she barely noticed the car when I pulled alongside her.
Cutting the engine, I get out and walk to her. “You should have allowed me to colle—pick you up properly at your home.”
She swings her purse from side to side. “It’s too nice of a day to wait inside.”
I glance up at the heavy clouds. It’s been raining all day and only stopped twenty minutes ago. “Really?” I ask dryly.
“Truly.” A drop of rain lands on her cheek, reminding me of a tear.
Stepping closer, I gently wipe it away with the pad of my thumb. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
She looks away, her beautiful profile all she’ll allow me to view. “I didn’t know what to think.”
“Look at me.” I cup her chin and turn her to face me. “I gave you my word.”
Her black lashes fall, hiding her pretty eyes from me. “So I’m an obligation to fulfill.”
She doesn’t know how close to the truth she actually is, but for me, she will never be just an obligation. “Don’t take it that way. What I meant is that I’m a man of my word.”
“Sometimes, your words hurt.” Her gaze meets mine, and I clench my teeth at the pain I see in hers. I caused it. Again.
“I promise to be more careful with my words.” I can’t apologize, not for protecting her, not for wanting to keep her alive. Protecting Everly is like second nature. It’s like breathing, blinking… or my heart beating.
“Thank you.” She smiles at me, tipping up her face.
Automatically, I dip my head. Our mouths are inches apart, oxygen becoming shared. The scent of her fills my nose, my mouth, my lungs…my body. I let my hand curve around her head to the back of her neck, and draw her closer.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say roughly.
“Okay,” she whispers. She grabs my free hand, twining her fingers in mine and tugging.
“Tell me,” I say, one last time before I give in to the nearly uncontrollable need to taste her.
Her dark gaze searches my face, lips plump and parting. Mine part in response. My body vibrates in anticipation. Every muscle is straining, even as I hold myself back. The only thing between us is millimeters and clothes.
Bloody damn clothes.
“Kiss me, Roman,” she orders, and I meet her the rest of the way.
I capture her mouth with mine and she willingly surrenders, her grip tightening. Our fingers are bound together by more than just the physical. I can’t explain it, don’t want to question it, but I do know I will not let anything come between us.
Taking my time, I explore her lush lips, kissing the corners and nibbling on the bottom one. It’s firm and plump. I lightly bite down, and she gives a little moan, enough to inflame my senses more than she already has over the past few months.
I suck her lip inside my mouth, then let it pop out and fuse our mouths again. I can’t stop kissing her. I can’t stop reveling in the taste of the woman I’ve wanted for so long. She’s tart, sweet, and so damn desirable that I know I’ll explode if I don’t have her in my bed soon. I need to sink inside her sexy body and mark her as mine.
Her tongue tangles with mine, and I growl. Growl. Like some fucking beast instead of a man. But what she does to me… She makes me forget my past. I can only focus on the present, on her in my arms, her body pressed against mine as the rain softly falls on the two of us.
“Roman,” she murmurs, and I shush her, afraid she wants to stop, though she was the one who ordered me to kiss her. To be honest, I’m afraid that somehow she can taste my sins and violent deeds, and is disgusted.
So, I let go of her hand and cup her face with both of my hands, aligning my head in such a way that allows me to take control. I kiss her deeply, fiercely…as if I’ll never have this chance again.
Her kisses are making me drunk, high…careless. Any one of my enemies could see us, and shoot me before I could draw my own gun.
One last, lingering kiss and I break contact, step away, and try to get my body under control. It’s hard. I’m so fucking hard. I can barely walk, barely stand…barely function.
I rub my fingers across my lips, not to wipe her away, but to remember. I want to rub in the taste of her, so that I never forget. So that when I die, the last memory I’ll have is of kissing Everly Andrews in the rain.
Please God, don’t ever make it so I have to kill her.