Page 81 of The Beast of Moscow

“No,” he replied simply.

His eyes popped open at the glass clink that echoed. He almost smiled at the item she had sat on the circular, wooden side table next to his chair.

“Still don’t think you need anything to drink,” she muttered, glowering at the half filled forty-ounce bottle of top shelf vodka. At least the Frenchman kept good liquor on hand. “Are you even supposed to mix whatever you took with alcohol?”

“It was a Vicodin.”

She glanced his way, meeting his narrowed gaze. “So?”

“Never hurt before.”

His clipped response must not have been what she was expecting—or wanting—because Vera only scoffed, and shook her head before turning to leave. “Fine, keep your vodka and pills. I’m going to bed. You don’t need anything else, right?”

Vas reached out and snatched her wrist in his grasp before she could go anywhere. The action had her spinning back around before he’d even blinked up at her again, and though she tugged to pull away, he refused to let go.

“What now?” she asked.

He wished that wetness in her eyes didn’t bother him so much. Or even the frown tugging down at her tempting mouth. It was even more cumbersome to him because he had a good idea that he was the cause for her displeasure.

Shocker.

He usually was the source of discontent in the lives of people around him.

“The robe is much better,” he murmured.

Vera’s throat flexed with a swallow, but otherwise, she didn’t acknowledge the fact she’d changed out of the unknown t-shirt for a silk robe she cinched with a loose knot in the middle.

She tugged on her wrist once more.

He still held firm.

“Why won’t you let me go? God. You act like you can’t stand to have me in the same room, Vas. Give me some time to breathe, okay?”

He chuckled, as dry as it was. “I’m in pain.”

“So, what, that justifies your—”

He yanked firmly enough on her wrist, when she wasn’t expecting it, that Vera practically stumbled over her feet, almost right into his lap.

Her hands sprawled to his knees and skirted up his thighs to catch herself, those big blue eyes of hers locking onto his when she looked up with a sharp gasp. He didn’t give her time to respond or understand why he’d done what he’d done; instead, he leaned close and caught her upturned face in the palms of his hands.

Softly, he stole a featherlight kiss.

Then, Vas let her go.

“Goodnight,” he said.

Vera didn’t move, but he could feel the soft tremor working its way through her fingertips that dug into his upper thighs through the towel still wrapped around his waist. “You could just ... ask for a kiss.”

“Could I?”

She blinked, her stare dropping to his mouth. “Well—”

“Or do you like it when I take it from you more, kisska?”

“I don’t like when you give me whiplash.”

Vas cocked his head sideways, drinking in the sight of her kneeled down between his open legs in a thin, flimsy robe that had managed to open just enough for him to see what she wasn’t wearing. The cotton panties stayed on, though.