Page 95 of Jetmir

“Me,” she deadpanned. “Besides, you don’t have a vagina and cannot seduce those dickheads.”

I pushed my hand through my hair. “Jesus Christ. This plan of yours is sounding less and less like a smart idea.”

“You’re just jealous, because you didn’t think of it. It’s a great plan.” I scoffed and she got up. “I’m doing it whether you approve or not. So either get on board or…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but I had no doubt she meant every spoken and unspoken word. Jesus, what had I done in my present and past lives that God was punishing me by surrounding me with stubborn women?

“Okay,” I finally agreed slowly.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “I knew you’d come around.”

“But the moment you sense danger, you get out.” I pinned her with a stare. “If you get killed…” My throat tightened. “I’ll find you, bring you back to life, then kill you again for being reckless.”

Her smile disappeared.

“I know you’re worried. Afraid even.” I said nothing because she’d hit the nail on the head. “But I got this.”

I stood up and came around the desk. She was shorter than me. Anyone looking at us might assume I was the only dangerous one, but they would have been wrong. Elira was just as lethal, but that didn’t mean I worried any less.

“I know you got this,” I rasped, pulling her into a hug. “Although, my warning stands. If something happens to you, I’ll…”

I trailed off and she smiled faintly. “I know, I know. I love you, brother.”

“I love you too, sister.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ANYA

“Let’s go skydiving, wife.” Jetmir poked his head through the door of the library where I spent most of my days.

I didn’t bother to look up from my special edition book. “Only if we’re jumping separately and you do so without a parachute.”

“Or maybe we can recreate another one of your scenes?” Damn it, why was my rage-baiting not working?

“Sure,” I answered, smiling sweetly. Hope flickered in his eyes, but my next words succeeded in extinguishing it. “You can start by lying down so I can slice you into tiny pieces and bury you in the Paris catacombs.”

I returned my attention to the book resting in my lap, shifting my curled legs against the couch cushions. Dozer stretched, then shifted away, tired of my constant fidgeting. This had become our routine over the past week. Jetmir would try to spend time with me, and I would swiftly shut him down.

A whole week, trapped on an island with no one but each other. A whole week of Jetmir shadowing me, searching for an opening to talk about “us.” Of me refusing to give him one. Of nights filled with orgasms and days where I pretended they didn’t mean anything.

God, why was it so damn hard to hate him?

I had fought him, negotiated with him, and pleaded until I turned blue.

I’d tried to make him see reason, reminding him that my parents were probably frantic with worry—and that his were too. I warned him that my kidnapping could have already sparked a war, one that would cost innocent people their lives.

Jetmir refused to hear any of it.

So I resolved to sit in the library and ignore him. Sometimes it proved impossible, like when he forced me to eat, claiming to be scared for my health. Even the memory made me scoff. He should be scared for his own health.

I lifted my head, half expecting my husband to still be standing in the doorway, watching me with that infuriating patience of his.

He wasn’t.

I closed my book and set it on the coffee table with a soft thud. It wasn’t as though I’d been doing much besides rereading the same page, not absorbing a single word.

My gaze drifted toward the lone desk.