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“Forgive me,” I whisper as Kolya continues to thrust into me, harder and harder, unwinding every last defense I have left. “Forgive me.”
I’m not sure who I’m asking forgiveness from. Adrian? My baby? Myself?
My plea for forgiveness rises up like the mist and I lose it, too. I lose everything as the orgasm finds me.
I feel Kolya come right on my heels. His heat, sticky and unlike all the other heat around us, fills me up. Then his thrusting slows. Eases. Stops.
He reaches out and cuts off the flow of water.
Just like that, a creeping sense of wrongness follows. When it was hot and wet and steamy, this felt okay. Now that the cold is coming, the clarity is coming with it.
So is the shame.
A random man would have been bad enough. But I chose a man who I knew was a murderer. A man without any qualms about killing in cold blood.
Worse still, he’s the brother of the man whose baby I’m carrying. Adrian has been buried—what, how many weeks ago now? Time has lost all meaning. Whatever the answer, I know that it’s not nearly long enough to warrant sex with another man. Not nearly long enough to justify fucking his brother.
I tell myself it’s okay because it meant nothing. I’m not in love with Kolya Uvarov. I’m still in love with Adrian. Kolya is just… second-best. He’s the only part of Adrian left that I can still touch, and in some twisted way, maybe that’s what I was looking for.
The final piece of the man who abandoned me.
Kolya turns from me. He kept his shirt on the whole time. The fabric of it clings to the muscles of his back.
When he turns back around, he offers me a towel without ever raising his eyes to meet mine.
I take it cautiously and wrap around my body, eyeing him the whole time. Kolya doesn’t seem concerned with getting himself dry. He doesn’t seem to want to remove his wet clothes, either. It’s more like he’s waiting for something.
“You should go sit down,” he mumbles. “Get off your ankle.”
For some reason, that pisses me off. He should at least have the courage to own up to what he just did. Whatwejust did.
“You did what you came here to do,” I snap. “You can leave.”
He’s quiet and still for a long moment. He still won’t look at me. Goddammit, why won’t helookat me?
Then he pivots and makes for the door.
“Kolya?” I call just before he can leave.
He pauses but doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything. His back is broad and soaking wet. The white shirt plastered against his back makes him look like a marble statue.
“I will accept help from anyone in this house. But not from you. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
He just nods, as though this was his end goal all along. Then he leaves and my door snaps shut, blotting out the light.
22
KOLYA
“Boss,” says Samuil at my office door, “there’s a woman at the gates, requesting entry.”
I wave him off without even looking. “Turn her away. I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t entertain uninvited guests.”
I go back to my work. The mess at the warehouse has forced me to get creative with where we’re resituating those supplies. I have men all over the city stuffing pallets of high-powered firearms and bricks of pure heroin into every little hole in the wall we can find.
A few minutes later, there’s another knock. “Sir…”
I glance up to see Samuil again. I arch one eyebrow, a silent question.
