Page 65 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

The syllables are rough with sleep, low and warm, spoken into the braid he wove last night. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. The soreness between my thighs is a deep, sweet ache that reminds my body of every inch of him.

"What does that mean?"

"Good morning." His thumb traces my hip, lazy and unhurried. "In Russian."

"Dob-ROY-yeh OOH-tro." I butcher every syllable with full confidence and zero accuracy.

His chest moves against my back. The vibration starts low, builds, breaks into a sound completely new from him. An actual laugh, short and real, startled out of him by the sheer audacity of my pronunciation. The vibration rolling through his body into my cheekbone is the best sound in the world.

"Terrible," he says, but his arm tightens and his lips press against the curve of my ear. I can feel the smile he's wearing against my skin.

I roll into him, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in cedar and clean skin. He is solid, present, here.

The compound is quiet around us. Morning light, his heartbeat, the slow circles his thumb draws on my hip.

From this angle, curled against his body with his arm around me, I can see the edge of my boot where it sits beside the nightstand. The leather is scuffed from running. The zipper glints in the morning light.

The paper is inside. Nikolai's name on every route.

I close my eyes, pressing closer to his chest, counting his heartbeats against my cheek.

Tomorrow. I'll deal with it tomorrow.

Thirteen

Cora

Hours later I wake to the sound of his heartbeat.

It’s steady and slow. My cheek presses against the warm skin of his chest and his arm rests heavy across my waist, keeping me pinned in place. The blanket is pulled over us and like this, I never want to leave this bed. We’ve slept most of the morning away and I don’t feel the least bit guilty.

I’m in heaven and frankly I didn’t know if I would even get there after death, much less experience anything this calming in real life. I snuggle in closer and trace the tip of my finger over the dark ink of his tattoos.

Cozy is my new motto. Anything outside these stone walls is not welcome.

I spend another few minutes gazing out the large window facing the lake.

Morning light cuts through the cliff-face windows in pale gold strips that fall across the black marble and the tangled sheets.

"Dobroye utro." Rowan drags me up his chest and I let out a soft laugh of surprise.

"Dob-ROY-yeh OOH-tro." I try again and I’m still terrible, but I’m fully committed to learning his language.

“We’ll keep practicing, my sunshine.” His arm tightens around me. His lips press against my hair.

I slide out from under his arm. “I’d like that.” I throw him an air kiss as pad across the cold marble to the bathroom. My body is sore in places I have never been sore before and the ache is a warm, low reminder of what we shared last night. I hum while I brush my hair and get ready for the day. That’s not really something I do often or at all. Out of nowhere I can’t see my reflection in the mirror because of the blur of tears. For the first time in my life, I think I’m happy. I mean, I love my mom and my sister, but they have their own lives. This is what love must do. It must make you feel like you found where you belong. My body is warm and pliant from our lovemaking. Glowy even, and I’m quickly finding myself needing his touch again.

I know it’s dreamy world thinking, but I settle a hand over my stomach. A lot of changes are coming for both of us. Either now or later down the road. I’ll have to talk to Rowan about expanding the cabin above so we don’t raise a child in the underworld, as he calls it. A baby needs sunlight and lots of it.

Hmm…sunlight. That one word brings a smile to my lips and fresh tears to my eyes.

I rinse my mouth and my toothbrush, returning it to the holder when his voice reaches me from the other room.

He’s speaking low and I can’t make out all the words. I turn off the faucet and tilt my head toward the doorway. Has there been another body? My stomach churns at the idea someone else has died.

"...disposal has to happen before the end of the day. I don't want any trace left behind. I want it so clean not even the KP unit can pick up traces. Understood."

My fingers tighten on the edge of the sink. Disposal? No trace? His voice gets a fraction louder where I no longer have to strain to hear. I mean I can do math pretty well and in my brain mafia man plus disposal call equals a dead body.