Page 43 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I step out of Rowan’s arms and this time he lets me.

“Was it your son? That’s a terrible thing to ask, but…” I let the rest of my words fall away.

“That is my guess.” That same haunting pain from a few moments ago drifts over his face.

The blood drains from my face and my knees wobble. Rowan steps forward and reaches for me, placing a steadying hand on my elbow.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

“He’s sending a message. He’s telling you he knows where you are.”

Rowan inhales slowly and then says the one thing I need to hear.

“No one knows of this place. Trust me. No one.”

Until he proves otherwise, I have to trust him. I have no one else.

I look back at the garden. The dead stems. The dry soil. The stubborn weed that still clings to life at the base of the nearest raised bed.

My palms come to rest on his chest and I feel every inhale of breath. "I know you need to go. I know you’ve risked a lot to help me. I’m so sorry for the pain this is all causing you. Let me help."

“No. You can not put yourself at risk.” There’s a finality to his tone like he cares if I live or die beyond just granting my wish. I don’t know what to do with that information so I tuck it away with the rest of my mental notes to look at later.

“You misunderstand. Let me bring some color back into your dark world, Rowan. Let me give back to you the only way I know how.”

He considers me for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

“Let me worry about that.” I reach for the bag he dropped to the floor.

“Go. I'm going to change.” I stop at the door that leads back into the kitchen. I angle a look over my shoulder to find his gaze tracking my every move with no apology.

I hold up the bag. “By the way, did you grab panties by any stroke of luck?"

His chuckle lingers as he moves to the elevator and leaves me to the darkness of his underworld.

I know what is coming, and I have no idea if I'll survive being locked underground with a man whose presence makes my body wish for the forbidden. The threat to my life is real. But so is the heat curling low in my belly every time those pale eyes find mine.

Eight

Rowan

My neck is broken.

Not literally. But after two nights in that reading chair, my body has stopped caring about the distinction.

I turn my neck and give a push on the edge of my chin with my thumb until a pop releases the tension, then repeat in the other direction. The relief is instant but short-lived.

I open my eyes to the library ceiling. The blanket I pulled over myself around midnight lies in a heap on the floor. My left shoulder is locked solid. The damn thing won't move without grinding. My right leg went numb hours ago where I have it draped over the chair arm. I might have managed an hour of sleep. Two tops.

All because of her. Because of what happened on the terrace yesterday. The taste of her still burns on my tongue, the sounds she made against my mouth still vibrate through my skull. If I go anywhere near a bed with her in it, I won't stop at tasting. I'll consume. I can’t let that happen to a woman under my protection.

And I won’t stop at consuming her. I’ll fucking ruin the woman and enjoy doing it.

I can’t let that happen. Not when anyone close to me could get hurt for simply knowing me. Being romantically involved with me is a death wish. That thought provokes another truth. If my son finds out I have her, he’ll torture her before letting her bleed out.

I slowly ease my frame out of the chair and every bone in my body pops and cracks. Neck, back, left knee, right ankle. The knees are the worst. They always are. The two bullets I received as a parting present from Russia are the gift that keeps on giving. The damage never fully healed and every day I pay for carrying the Volkov name. Most mornings the ache is manageable. After two nights folded into furniture, my legs feel like they belong to a man thirty years older.

I stretch and my lower back protests so aggressively that I put both hands on the desk and lean forward to breathe through it.