Page 56 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I wrap both hands around the mug. “Was?”

“He's dead. Last night.” Rowan's fingers find the ring and turn it. “Before he died, he left a message. He mentioned you. Not by name. He called you the fairy-haired woman.”

The mug burns against my palms but I don't let go. My throat dries up. A man I've never met, locked underground in a concrete box, knew I existed. Knew what I look like. Knew enough to describe my hair to someone who would make sure Rowan got the message.

“I've never heard that name in my life.” My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “How does a man in a cell with no windows know what color my hair is?”

'Someone on the inside fed him information. Harlon found the source and handled it.'

I set the mug down because my hands won't stop shaking and hot coffee and trembling fingers are a bad combination. The warmth from five minutes ago, the coffee, the banter, the lingering heat of this morning, all of it drains out of me in one cold rush.

My expression turns grave, cold. “This means we are not safe here.” I back out of his arms and start looking at the shadows as if they really do hold monsters in them.

A strong hand wraps over the curve of my shoulder. The weight is reassuring, but will that keep me alive? Nope.

He exhales roughly. “Nyet. You will not live in fear.”

My eyes go wide and I curl my arms over my chest. “Too late, buster. I’ve been scared for so long now I think it’s just part of who I am now.”

“No one knows of this place. Period. You hear me? You are safe here.”

Rowan knows more than he’s sharing. He’s just giving me a chance to walk away so he doesn’t have to say more. I know he doesn’t want to scare me, but I find staying ignorant of events leads to a quicker death.

“Just because you think that is true, doesn’t make it so. Your son obviously has it out for you. He’s more resourceful than you may want to give him credit for.”

“You may be right, but this one fact I know to be true.”

I can’t argue with a man who only wants to make me feel safe. He steps into my personal space and threads his fingers through my hair. The one simple gesture takes all the air out of my fight. I lean into his touch and let the heat of his palm against my cheek calm my nerves.

When silence falls between us it doesn’t last long, but in the few seconds he stands there looking at me, I wish I could trade places with Rowan and feel what it is like to live with so much confidence.

The day unfolds in a series of proximities that carry a different charge than yesterday. Yesterday he told me he loved me, kissed me in the kitchen, fed me spaghetti, rubbed my feet, and held me all night. This morning he called me his sunshine in Russian, stroked himself in a doorway while I watched, and then told me about a dead prisoner who knew my name.

Every touch that happens between us comes with an electrical charge against skin that is already buzzing from too much honesty and not enough follow-through.

It’s around noon and my Russian bodyguard is at the stove making eggs. The man has frustratingly remained shirtless all day just to drive me crazy.

So I’ve returned the favor. I reach past him for a glass, raising to the tips of my toes. I can feel the brush of air on my exposed ass cheeks.

And the heat of his gaze.

The growl only makes me smile.

In another moment, I go to grab a spatula to help him with a pan of bacon. My fingers brush his bare ribs and the man goes still.

The warmth of his skin against mine jolts me back to three hours ago when that same skin was pressed along the full length of my body in the dark. At this point I don’t know how is teasing who anymore.

“Sorry,” I offer with a look of pure innocence.

I'm at the spice rack looking for any signs of paprika that I might have overlooked yesterday. He appears behind me to reach for the pepper. His bare chest presses against my back, solid and warm, his breath moving the hair at the top of my head. The position mirrors waking up in his arms and my body responds before my brain can tell my libido to calm the hell down. I lean back half an inch. He doesn't move away. The pepper stays on the shelf because he’s too busy walking away and adjusting himself.

We eat at the counter. I'm on the stool, and he's opted to stand directly beside me. Somehow his knee ends up against mine and once again my body is ready for the pleasure to go further.

After lunch I wander into the library looking for a distraction. His desk has a stack of blank paper and a cup of pencils with decent graphite weight. I grab a handful of both and spread out on the living room floor, sketching the view through the cliff-face windows. Lake Michigan in charcoal, the ridge line in soft graphite, the play of light on water. My fingers move on autopilot while my brain replays every moment of this morning on a loop I can't shut off.

He settles on the couch with his tablet, a shirt finally on but unbuttoned, working through whatever intelligence reports fill his days. But the heat of his eyes is on me. I can feel the brush of his curiosity linger.

I'm lying on my stomach with my feet kicked up behind me and the pumpkin spice sweater has ridden up to the very tops of my thighs. The black lace is probably visible.