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Slowly, she pushed against his biceps. The muscles beneath her fingertips were firm and warm, so much bigger and more defined than the last time she had touched him. She wanted to caress them, kiss them. Lay her head on them, close her eyes, and forget about all her worries.
Not today…
She took a deep breath. “Please.”
His eyes went to her fingers as if only then he registered he was the one preventing her from doing as he said.
He cursed and then stepped away from her. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of water running filled the room. Her heart rate turned to normal as she realized she had averted another crisis.
Almost dizzy from relief, Elena followed inside the bedroom. She took off her clothes and looked for something to sleep in. On the recliner next to the window she noticed a black shirt. She put it on and quickly disappeared underneath the covers. She supposed she should be thankful he didn’t stuff her in the broom closet. Her eyes went to the gold ring on her finger. It was a simple band, unlike the meaning behind the gesture. She knew it held a promise. Not to cherish and love, but to keep and torment. It was a way to show his ownership over her. What did it mean for their future? Did they even have one? Or was he going to decide he wanted to become a widower any time soon? He’d told her he married her for Vicky. To save her from Vasili meant he had to own her. In their fucked-up world, it was their way. She knew how the drill went. It hadn’t been all that different in the Family. Lorenzo had married her to adhere to the rules. To do what was expected of him. Look at what that had brought her. She couldn’t imagine Viking having any better plans for her. But she also knew something every mob wife did: as a wife she had rights. Even more so as a Vory wife.
Buckle up, Viking.
Tormentor.
Lover.
Husband.
CHAPTER 19
VIKING
Viking woke up with a splitting headache. To an empty bed. The events of the day before came back to him, hitting him like a train wreck. His ring finger lacked a marriage band, but he was a married man now nonetheless. To a woman he hated. Last night he’d gone to bed after drinking a bottle of Jack. Maybe even two, he wasn’t sure. It was either that or fuck his new wife into oblivion.
He rolled out of bed and went straight into the shower. He needed to think. A little over a week ago Elena had been his prisoner, and now she was his damn wife. His plans for her hadn’t exactly panned out the way he’d intended. He should probably set some ground rules. He turned off the shower and got out, toweling off as he walked back into his room to get dressed. Still no sign of his new bride.
He heard a bark and couldn’t prevent a smile. Of course. She would have met Loki by now. His vicious dog was probably yapping at her ankles, showing her who was boss. Loki didn’t take kindly to strangers.
Putting on jeans and a shirt, he looked for his watch. After putting that on, he sauntered into the kitchen where he was met by the smell of coffee and waffles. He loved waffles. His usual morning routine was to pick some up before he went to work. Baran drove him. Where was he, anyway? Must have stayed in the apartment below, giving him time for his ‘wedding night.’ The kid was weird like that. Modern as the day was long, but old-fashioned when it came to things he considered tradition.
Elena was crouched near the kitchen island, petting Loki. His dog was wagging his tail and showing his belly.
“Traitor,” he muttered.
Hazel eyes looked up. “What was that?”
“I said, where’s my coffee?”
He dropped onto the chair across from her, forcing his gaze away from her. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push away the fantasy of pressing her against the sink and entering her from behind. He’d already spotted a wooden spoon, perfect to swat her ass with as he pumped into her. Except, she didn’t deserve to get off. He could fight this.
Keep telling yourself that.
After giving Loki one last rub, Elena got up and put two mugs before him. Only one of them was coffee.
“It’s your hangover drink,” she explained, and sat across from him.
It was the wrong thing to say. It only reminded him she’d made him this drink before. In another life. A time he tried to forget.
He grabbed the drink anyway and downed it in one go. The green goo tasted disgusting, but he knew it would have the right effect.
“How many times did you make it for Morelli?” The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t like the way they sounded. As if he were jealous.
Her brows shot up, and for a second, she looked caught off guard by his question. Then that veil fell over her eyelids again, and he wondered what other secrets she was keeping from him.
“Never,” she declared, dividing the waffles onto two plates. “He didn’t get drunk.”
Viking found that hard to believe. Then again, Lorenzo Morelli had been known for his closely-guarded private life.
