by Shandi Boyes
With a testing smirk etched across his face, he taps on the trash icon at the very bottom of the screen before double-clicking on a recently deleted file. Deleting video images from this device won’t stop Vladimir from seeing them, which tells me Roman only wanted to hide this clip from me.
That pisses me the fuck off. He, along with Trey, are the only men I trust to a fault. If they don’t have my back, I’m a fucking goner.
While working my jaw side to side in an attempt to calm my anger, I watch the video. It commences on Roman in the kitchen. He’s seated at the dining nook, enjoying the breakfast I asked the Popov housemaids to make after they returned Justine’s residence to its pre-orgy state.
The pulse in my jaw drops several inches when Justine enters the frame. Her body is covered by a floral-printed dress that shouldn’t look as ravishing as it does. Her eyes widen when she takes in her spotlessly clean kitchen. She appears utterly shocked.
“The Popov housemaids are the best of the bunch,” Roman says on screen, causing Justine to jump.
Justine screws up her nose when Roman shows her the feast being kept warm in the oven. It has everything you’d expect to find at a buffet breakfast in a five-star hotel. Sausages, pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
I grin when Justine mumbles, “The Popov housemaids made me brunch?” Although hard for her to pull off, her daft act is cute.
Roman nods. “Yes.”
“Why?” Even through small tablet speakers, Justine’s squeal shrills in my ears.
Roman appears as if he’s sharing state secrets when he mumbles, “Because Nikolai asked them to after ushering everyone out of your apartment.”
My cock swells as quickly as my chest when excitement flares through Justine’s impressive eyes. “Nikolai asked everyone to leave?” When Roman nods again, Justine proves why a change in degree was best for all involved. She’s too inquisitive to be an architect. “Then why are you still here?” As her mouth falls open, her spine snaps straight. “You’re Nikolai’s protector.”
I glare at Roman over the tablet when he grins like a smug prick on screen. “It's more of an advisory role than a protective detail. As you witnessed last night, Nikolai doesn’t require protection.”
Justine gives him a look, as if to say, Yeah, and look where that got him. Facing an infinite number of line-ups in his short life.
Roman’s reasoning for hiding this footage from me is exposed when he responds to Justine’s silent scorn. “The exchange between Nikolai and his accused Friday afternoon was family business. It was not my place to intervene.”
“Family business?” Justine forces out with a laugh. “The man Nikolai attacked was from the Petretti crew. How could that be family business?”
My knuckles pop from how hard I clench my fist from Roman saying, “That’s also a matter of family business. One that isn’t mine to share.”
Not willing to fall for his blasé response, Justine interrogates him further. “Family ties didn’t stop Nikolai from assaulting one of his own last night.”
“Are you sure of what you saw, Justine?” Roman asks her, stepping closer to her. “As from my vantage point, Nikolai appeared to be very much protecting one of his own.” He peers down at her, his face softer than the mask he wears around my crew. “You’re under Nikolai’s skin. Usually, I’d be pleased by that notion. But for a man with responsibilities like Nikolai, attaching himself to someone could mean death.”
“He’s not attaching himself to anyone,” Justine forces out through the panic clutching her throat.
I prick my ears, straining to hear Roman’s reply to Justine’s lie. “Nikolai calls himself The Snake as he must continually shed his skin to stay alive. I’ve yet to see him do that with you. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?” When Justine fails to answer his question, Roman lips tug into a grin. “Ah. He’s under your skin as well. This will make the fight a lot fairer.”
Before Justine can reply, Roman pivots on his heels and exits the kitchen.
After returning the surveillance tablet to its original setting, I glare at Roman. I’m pissed as fuck he intervened in business he doesn’t belong in, but I also understand where his worry stems from. He’s been my advisor my entire life. He stitched me up when I was beaten, and showed me ways to stop it from happening again. He’s been there for me more than the man people assume is my father, and it isn’t for monetary gain either. He does it because blood didn’t give him the title of my uncle. Respect did.
When an image on the tablet captures my attention, I leave Roman to untether the noose his interference wrapped around his neck. I’ve unearthed a loophole in Vladimir’s surveillance that presents the perfect opportunity for me to discover just how attached Justine is without the help of a pair of fluorescent pink yoga pants. Fingers crossed my lips are the only arsenal needed to convince an angel to side with the devil.
Chapter Nineteen
“Are you looking for this?”
Air leaves Justine’s lungs in a hurry when my thick timbre carries lust through her veins like liquid ecstasy. She peers at me standing at the entrance of her massive walk-in pantry beneath lowered lashes, acting as if the tablet I’m holding isn’t what she’s frantically searching for.
After taking a minute to clear the panic from her face, she shakes her head. “No. I was looking for the maple syrup.”
I pace into the pantry, loving the way the vein in her neck pulsates more for every step I take. When I lean across her shoulder to grab the bottle of maple syrup from the third shelf, goosebumps follow the excited shudder rolling down her spine. She isn’t shaking in fear. She’s mad about the laughter bubbling in my chest.
She snatches the bottle from my hand, whispers a quick “thank you,” then spins toward the exit. Since I have her trapped at the very end of the pantry, and she’s a good three to four inches shorter than me, her pivot places her nose a mere inch from my chest.
My scent has never had any issues attracting the ladies, and it appears as if Justine isn’t immune. After slanting her head to the side, her nostrils flare so she can suck in the aroma of her bodywash on my skin. When a gleam in her eyes has me convinced she’s seconds from peeling out of her clothes, my cock pretends it didn’t achieve release only minutes ago. It knocks at my zipper, pleading to be freed; it bangs as furious as the thud of Justine’s pulse.
When several painful seconds pass without Justine hearing the frantic pleas of my dick, I’m forced to get inventive. “Imagine how good we will smell when our scents are intermingled the old-fashioned way.”
I drag my nose down her neck to drink in her scent, growling when I smell myself on her skin.
“You smell like me.” She does. Every inch of her smells like me, and I fucking love it.
“Yes.” She licks her dry lips as her budded nipples compete for space with my chest. “I should probably shower?”
When she attempts to sidestep me, I move into her path, blocking her exit. I’m so starving for her, if the only way I can have her is in the pantry of her outdated kitchen, I’ll suffer the injustice. It will need to be hard and fast to keep Vladimir’s suspicions as low as his morals, but I’ll be sure to make it up to Justine at a more convenient time.
Don’t get me wrong. She won’t leave without coming, I just need to bring her to climax as quickly as she caught my eye.
“Nikolai...” Justine whimpers when I step closer, trapping her further, tempting her as she’s never been tempted.
“Justine...” My voice is as simpering as hers. Full of hunger and unanswered need. “I just came in my hand recalling the taste of your lips. What I wouldn’t give for another taste.”
A flare detonates through her eyes, revealing she loves the idea of me stroking my cock over her. However, they also expose she’s not willing to give in to the temptation gobbling up every inch of her sanity just yet.
Forever willing to push the boundaries, I say, “A kiss for a pass.”
I anticipate for her to shoot d
own my suggestion with a direct ‘no,’ so you can imagine my surprise when she says, “A kiss for the device.”
“No.” I loom over her, fighting not to take what I need. I could never be accused as being patient, so our prolonged game of cat and mouse isn’t just messing with my head. It’s killing me. “A kiss for a pass, or you remain trapped in the pantry with me…” The flare in her eyes deepens as excitement takes hold. “… for eternity.”
Our groins are aligned so well, I can feel how much she wants me. The knowledge tightens the front of my jeans to the point its painful, and it slicks my skin with sweat.
“Your taste is fading from my mouth, and I’ll be fucked if I can wait another two days to replenish it.” Her soundless moan… Fuck. Me. Hotter than sin. “Just a quick nibble. A little sample.” My lips crack when they arch into a grin to hide my lie. “I’ll even keep my tongue in my mouth.”
“I’m your attorney, Nikolai. Our interactions are crossing a very clear line we’re not supposed to cross,” Justine throws out, using her one and only excuse not to surrender to the electricity firing between us.
“You witnessed me stabbing a man without calling the authorities. The line has already been crossed.”
“Who said I didn’t call the police? I could have been doing that while you were seeking release in the shower.” She sounds more disappointed she missed the show than me holding her hostage in the pantry.
The heat on her cheeks double when I track my fingers down the vibrant red hue highlighting the column of her neck. “Do you know your neck flushes every time you lie?” I lock my eyes with hers. “Coincidently, it always happens when you deny my advances.”
“Who said it's a lie? Maybe I’m embarrassed at your pathetic attempts of schmoozing.”
I love a good fight as much as the next mobster, but there are some battles not even the most skilled killer wants to participate in.
This is mine.
“Is that what you want, Ahren? You want to be wined and dined? You want me to treat you like a princess?”
I sigh like a soft cock when Justine shakes her head.
Out of time, and perhaps a bit of patience, I ask, “Then what do you need, Ahren? Tell me what it’ll take to get another taste of you, and I’ll do it.” When her expression goes blank, I grind out, “Don’t play stupid. I know you want this as much as I do. I can feel it in my bones. Smell it in the air. Taste it on my lips.” I lick my lips, praying for a smidge of her mouth on mine, hopeful it will stop me reacting negatively to the desperation in my voice. I hate feeling weak. “I won’t stop until I have you beneath me, so tell me what you need so I can achieve that.”
All my annoyances vanish when Justine snickers. “A less dangerous job title.”
She’s lying—again—but before I can call her out on it, she slips under my arm and hot-foots it into the kitchen. I groan like I’m dying… because I am. Her hand hasn’t even been wrapped around my cock, yet it feels like she’s strangling it every time she denies my advances.
After weakening the sting hitting my crotch with a quick adjustment, I take off after Justine. I don’t have to travel far to find her. She’s removing the brunch the Popov housemaids prepared out of the oven while pretending the dampness of her panties isn’t the strongest aroma in the room.
When she spots me loitering at the side, she says, “During breakfast, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What type of questions?” I hate being interrogated, but if it keeps her in the same room as me, I can push aside my neurosis for an hour or two.
A breathless moan ripples Justine’s lips when I bob down to remove the dish from her hands. My soundless cross of the room isn’t to blame for her airy reply. It was from my pinkie finger seeking confirmation on the dampness between her legs.
As suspected, she’s wet for me.
While making my way to the dining nook, my strides as cocky as the wink I hit Justine with, she endeavors to cool the out-of-control fire roaring through her stomach from my meekest touch. I’m tempted to tell her not to bother, I have every intention to make her combust as often as possible once we’re away from prying eyes, but since I’m aware we’re being watched like a circus act, I keep my mouth shut.
I’m always cautious when hell is silent, because not only is Satan out seeking new recruits, he’s walking amongst the living.
My thoughts shift from one injustice to another when Justine says, “Some are pertaining to your case... Others are more personal.”
After gathering a set of plates and forks from the kitchen cabinet, she joins me at the dining nook. I fight a smile when she runs her thumb over the sharp prongs of the fork. A normal woman wouldn’t do that. They don’t test standard household equipment for their killing capabilities. Only someone with a little bit of black in their heart would do that.
When she dumps her fork onto the table, her question unanswered, I mutter, “Twenty-six seconds.”
She murmurs like she didn’t hear me. It is all an act. I spoke around a strip of bacon in my mouth, but I didn’t stumble my words. She just wants me to spell out what life will be like when she’s mine.
Once she’s seated across from me, I lower my eyes to her fork. “Twenty-six seconds. That’s how quickly I can kill a man with a fork.” I lift mine from the table, point it at my windpipe, then twist it. “If the strike doesn’t kill him, he’ll soon choke on his own blood.”
When Justine pushes her plate away from her, acting sickened, I laugh. Her face is as pure as an angel, but there are devilish thoughts in her eyes.
“No remorse at all?”
I shake my head. “No. The men I punish are villainous, vile men who deserve to die.”
“Kill, Nikolai. It’s not punishment when they’re dead,” Justine fights back.
My shoulder touches my ear when I shrug. If the crime is heinous enough to warrant a death sentence, it’s still a punishment, isn’t it?
While adding a stack of pancakes to Justine’s plate, I say, “I don’t like being interrogated, so let’s get these questions over as soon as possible, then we can enjoy the rest of our day.” Playfulness highlights my words when Justine’s eyes stray to the pantry for the quickest second. She won’t have a chance in hell of escaping me when she packs away the condiments from breakfast.
I’ll tie her to the shelves if I have to.
After slathering her pancakes with syrup and butter, I raise my eyes to Justine’s. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. She picks up her fork and commences downing her breakfast without a word needing to seep from my lips. I don’t know if she has mindreading skills or the fact she’s only had half a PB&J sandwich since lunchtime yesterday.
She must be starving.
While answering the demands of her grumbling stomach, Justine asks, “Did you arrange for my brother’s transfer to Harborview?”
I drop my eyes to her plate of pancakes to ensure she’s eaten enough before returning them to her face. When my brow cocks, she rolls her eyes before stuffing a big chunk of pancake into her mouth. While she chews, I contemplate what to tell her. I could use the surveillance cameras as an excuse to lie, but with Vladimir believing Roman is working on securing an informant for the Popov entity, I don’t need to.
“No, I didn’t set up your brother’s transfer.” As Justine’s eyes dance between mine, her brows join together. “I asked Roman to do it. He did as instructed.”
The tension depriving the air of oxygen evaporates when Justine throws her balled-up napkin into my chest. The only friction I want between us is our groins when I’m balls deep inside of her, so I’m happy my ploy achieved the outcome I was seeking.
I also don’t deserve her admiration. I did help her brother for her, but I’m also hoping my assistance will benefit me in the future. Justine believes Maddox is innocent. I believe there’s more to his story than he’s sharing. If we’re both right, I need to watch Maddox as closely as I am the Petretti’s, because neutral men aren’t just allies of
the devil; they can be his destroyer as well.
Approximately twenty minutes later, my attempt to keep our conversation on mutual territory flies out the window by Justine asking, “Why did you help Maddox, Nikolai? Your opinion on his case was highly notable last night, so why the sudden change of heart?”
I keep my reply blasé, like it’s no big deal I organized for her brother to be transferred from a maximum security prison to one that resembles a country club. “You asked for my help. I looked into it.”
Justine forces down a mouth of syrupy carbs before asking, “I asked for your help. When?”
Her nose crinkles when I push the surveillance tablet to her side of the table. After clearing the sticky residue from her fingers with a napkin, she watches the video I pre-installed for her. It’s from when she collapsed after Sergei’s attack. Around the time her memories faded.
When Dok enters the frame, I point him out before suggesting for Justine to fast forward an hour. My loaded fork hides my smile when she replies, “Why? So I can miss you spiking my drink?”
Although she’s arguing, she does as requested, stopping right around the time she woke up. “Is there any sound?”
I shovel a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth before removing the device from her hands. After forcing the video past my sickening act of pretending I have a heart in my chest, I hand the device back to Justine.
Her eyes taper when she notices the jump in timeline, but before she can voice her annoyance, her praise about my long lashes stop her. “You’re sooo pretty. I wish I had your lashes. They’re soo long they could reach the stars.” Her pupils dilate to the size of saucers when she watches how her launch onto her bed was quickly chased by an impromptu strip show.
Her eyes snap up to mine over the tablet when I growl under my breath, “I thought your bump and grind on the coffee table an hour earlier topped any burlesque show I’ve seen, but your little strip-tease in your room was ten times better.”