Page 115 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

She chuckles at that, and I sigh. “I don’t know how to protect you without becoming another man you have to fight,” I breathe into her hair.

Cara’s mouth parts. “Then stand with me.”

Her fingers press harder into my chest and I pull her in. Cara comes willingly. She comes into my arms hard, and I catch her like I’ve been waiting years to do it. My hands grip her back, her waist, anything I can hold, because letting go isn’t in me anymore.

“He walked away because you were there,” I say against her mouth. “If you hadn’t been, I would’ve ended him on that terrace.”

“I handled it.” Her fingers twist harder into my shirt. “I’m still handling it.”

“You're shaking.”

“So are you.”

She's right. My hands tremble against her back, and I hate it, and I can't stop. The image of Velenko's fingers closing around her waist plays behind my eyes like a blade turning.

“Look at me,” she says.

I do. Her eyes are bright, furious, wet at the edges, and the combination dismantles every locked door inside me. I kiss her, hard enough to bruise, and she bites back. The sound she makes into my mouth is half anger, half surrender, and it shoots straight through my blood.

I walk her backward through the apartment, past the bed, toward the tall cheval mirror that stands near the wardrobe. She stumbles once on the hem of her dress, and I catch her hip, steadying her, keeping her moving.

“Dmitri—” She pulls back, breathing hard.

“You wanted to be seen tonight.” I turn her around to face the mirror, standing behind her. “So look.”

Her eyes meet mine in the glass. Her lipstick is ruined. Her hair is half undone, strands falling across her neck. She looks shaken, furious, and alive under my hands, and the sight nearly wrecks me.

“You did this,” she says, watching me in the reflection.

“You started it at dinner.” My hands move to her shoulders, then down her arms, slow enough that she can feel every inch of intention. “You walked onto that terrace alone. You let him show us what he thought he could get away with.”

“To bait him. For you.”

“For us,” I correct.

Cara cups my face, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, and kisses me before I can ruin it with another word. Her chest rises and falls. I pull the pins from her hair, one by one, and let them drop. The dark weight of it falls down her back, and I gather it to one side, exposing her neck. I press my mouth to the skin below her ear, and she shivers.

"Watch," I tell her.

She swallows. Her reflection is flushed, chest rising, lips parted. My hands move to the zipper at her back and drag it down. The dress loosens. I push the fabric off her shoulders, and it pools at her waist, then drops to the floor.

She's standing in front of the mirror in almost nothing, and I'm still fully dressed, and the imbalance is deliberate.

"You're staring," she says.

"I'm looking at what's mine."

A muscle twitches in her jaw. "I'm not⁠—"

"You are." I unclip her bra, slide it down her arms, and drop it. "Right now, in this room, you are."

Cara's reflection stares back at me, breasts bare, nipples tight from the air and from whatever I'm doing to her. Her face is furious and flushed, and her breathing has gone shallow.

"Bastard," she whispers.

"Sit." I pull the chair from the vanity and place it directly in front of the mirror. "On my lap. Face the glass."

She hesitates for one breath, then turns and sits across my thighs, her back against my chest, her eyes fixed on our reflection. I'm still dressed. She's nearly naked. The contrast is vulgar, and her skin against the fabric of my suit is the most obscene thing I've ever felt.