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And those moments at the palace when I’d sensed something in him, something that would make me beg for just one . . . single . . . taste.
A taste of what it felt like.
To let go.
To . . . orgasm at a beautiful man’s hands.
But Aris shouldn’t seem beautiful.
I’d just watched him kill, practically mowing down an entire squad of possible hired assassins who might be after me.
“I like to dance. That has nothing to do with anything.” I moved away from the elevator, but I wouldn’t take a seat.
Not that he was offering.
My hands began trembling so I rubbed my arms. I wasn’t cold but I was . . . on uneven footing. “I want to go home now.”
“I didn’t ever get that feeling from you before.”
My eyes swerved to his. “Before?”
“Those other times you were dancing. At my club. Seemed to me like you were looking for an escape.”
Inhaling a shuddering breath, I straightened my spine. “I . . . Want . . . To . . . Go . . . Home.”
“Nyet.” His hand slashed across the air.
Pulling himself away from the console, he swaggered forward.
I refused to drop back.
“Before I killed that last man up there, he mentioned the name Abdullah.” Aris bent to extinguish his cigarette in a polished ashtray, bringing his eyes level with my breasts.
I felt even more vulnerable, aware that my nipples continued to respond to the male heat radiating off of him.
“Who is Abdullah to you?” As Aris rose, he snared me with his eyes.
“No one. My uncle,” I admitted.
His lips—so firm and kissable looking—curled at the corners. “Your uncle . . . no one?”
I gulped as a heated swirl dipped right down to my core.
“What does he want then, this uncle?”
“I don’t know exactly.” There was the smidgen of the idea about forcing me to marry my cousin who was ridiculously young and not at all suitable, regardless of the fact that we were actually related.
Uncle wanted power above all. I knew that much.
One of Aris’s fingers coasted along my arm, not actually touching skin but close enough that I felt the promise of a caress vibrating through me.
And it made me rage inside to want something I couldn’t have.
Aris must’ve seen my anger ignite, because he captured my wrist in an instant and cinched so tight I felt my pulse hammer beneath his fingertips.
“I know visiting a nightclub might be seen as an infraction because of who you are, but I hardly think that warrants shooting up the place by one of your male relatives.”
I shook my head, trying to get away.
His hard arm banded around my waist. “You know, my people are going to be up for the rest of the night cleaning up that mess because of you. Not to mention the dead bodies.”
“This is none of your business!”
“When pigs like them come busting into my club, waving guns around and shooting shit up because of your presence it becomes my business, prinkípissa.”
Overpowering me with such ease, Aris brought my lips to within a centimeter of his.
My pulse thrummed wildly not only beneath his fingers but all the way inside my core, a reaction caused by how very close he was.
“Let me go,” I said with a surprising amount of control.
He did. But then he gave me a contemptuous bow.
“I want to kick you.” I glared.
“I imagine so. Those heels could be part of your arsenal.”
He just wasn’t bothered at all, was he?
He was too cold.
He wasn’t the man I’d idealized.
He was far, far worse.
“Who are you, really?” I asked.
His head tilted as he considered me from beneath hooded eyes. He didn’t even look ruffled after the bloodbath. Not a stain on his hands or a hair out of place.
After considering me for several more intense moments, he mentioned, “Have you ever heard of the Russian mafia?”
I gulped, the dizziness returning. “The Bratva?”
Ohhhh.
Despite his best efforts, Father had failed at keeping me entirely sheltered.
Aris was Russian and Greek. He’d built his own mini empire in just five years.
He kept assassins on his payroll as evidenced earlier.
He was . . .
The Volkov family. St. Petersburg.
My heart quailed in my chest.
“Da.” His face grim and his jaw tight, he poured vodka into two glasses.
He downed one without even a grimace then preceded to refill the tumbler.
He passed me one, and I lowered myself to a chair. I took a hesitant sip and found the shot of alcohol sharp, cold, and refreshing.
Aris took a seat across from me, leaning back with thick thighs branched out, fingertips loosely tapping his glass.
He seemed unconcerned about giving up such an enormous secret.
Maybe that meant he planned on killing me next.
No one would really know what happened if I went missing.
