Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance

“Thought,” I repeat vehemently. “I used the past tense, meaning I definitely no longer hold that opinion of you. And just FYI, this is what I thought six years ago, before I knew who you were. Who you really were.”

“And who is that?” he asks. He hasn’t budged from where he’s standing just inches away from me, hands still planted on either side of my face. He hasn’t stopped smirking that fucking smirk. He hasn’t stopped being totally and completely Isaak Vorobev.

“Honestly,” I say, “you are the cockiest, most arrogant man I’ve ever met in my fucking life.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is.”

“You need to become a better liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

His smirk only gets more pronounced. “Yes, kiska, you are.”

“Don’t pretend like you can read my mind.”

“I don’t have to,” he acquiesces. “I can read your face. Your body.”

I tense immediately. “I don’t know what you want from me,” I say quietly. “I don’t know what you hoped to achieve by abducting me and forcing me into this sham of a marriage. But I don’t have the power to help. And even if I did, I wouldn’t waste it on you.”

“Is that loyalty talking?” Isaak hisses. “Or love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Call it professional curiosity.”

“You need to learn to lie better,” I say, savoring the feeling of throwing his own words back in his face. “You know what you sound like? A jealous boyfriend.”

He snorts. “I’ve never been jealous of Maxim. Not in my whole fucking life. Why do you think he’s trying so hard to take what’s mine?”

“That’s all this is then?” I ask. “A dick measuring competition?”

Isaak shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. The bottom line is I’m going to fucking win.”

“There you go again,” I say. “Win. What a joke. This is not a fucking game, Isaak, and I’m not a fucking pawn or a prize. I don’t deserve to be caught up in the middle of it.”

“And yet you are. Denial serves no purpose other than to get you killed sooner.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“I told you once before, Camila,” Isaak says, pressing against me. “I’m a dangerous man. There’s no fucking doubt about that. But I’m no danger to you. Not if you do as I say.”

My skin is tingling. Is it fear or excitement that’s causing that, though? When it comes to Isaak, I don’t know. I haven’t known since the beginning.

I shake my head. “Don’t you understand?” I say softly. “You pose the most danger to me.”

Confusion ripples across his face, but I don’t bother trying to explain. There’s too much that’s lying unsaid between us. I can already feel the tension of all the conversations we have yet to share.

“How’s that?”

“You’re the one who’s taken away my freedom.”

“Maxim was planning the exact same thing.”

“He asked me, Isaak. You never did.”

“No,” he growls. “I never ask for what I want.”

“Of course not. Because if you ask, then there’s always the possibility of a no.”

“You are not to contact Maxim,” he says instead of arguing further. His voice is low with deadly command. “Ever.”

“I deserve the right to get some closure.”

“I can give you all the closure you need.”

“You think wining and dining me is going to make me forget that I have a fiancé out there? A real fiancé?”

His eyes flash dangerously. And at that sight, I feel a flux of power I’ve had felt or had before.

He is jealous.

Jealous of what I might feel for his cousin.

Jealous of something that he can’t claim as his by force.

“He’s not your fucking fiancé,” he snarls.

“I’ve heard your version of things. I deserve the right to hear his version.”

His jaw forms a hard, square line. A vein in his forehead twitches erratically.

I’m pulling at a dangerous thread here, but I’m riding the high that is his reaction. I like seeing him lose it. And yes, a small, petty part of me enjoys the fact that he’s unravelling over the thought of me demanding to speak to another man.

“My version is the only one that matters.”

“You’re jealous,” I accuse again. “Just a jealous schoolyard bully.”

I want more of his rage. More of his envy. I can see in his face that he’s about to deliver exactly that—and then he stops.

Instantly, the fury disappears behind his icy blue eyes. His shoulders straighten. His jaw unclenches.

And I regret my decision to push him. Because compared to his rage…

Whatever is coming next will be far, far worse.

“I’ve already told you,” he says calmly. “I’m not jealous of Maxim. I have no reason to be. Do you want to know why?”

I ignore the rhetorical question as he eyes me like a predator stalking his prey.

“Because I can make you forget his name in twenty seconds flat.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” I say. It’s supposed to be a taunt, but my voice cracks at precisely the wrong moment. In that crack, Isaak sees everything he’s looking for.

And he leaps on it like a killing blow.

His lips descend on mine. His chest presses me against the wall and his hands slide around my wrists and pin them to my sides.

My head spins, and I can almost feel my arguments tumbling out of my head one by one, like dominoes.

His lips push mine apart and I feel his hot breath a moment before I catch a hold of his tongue.

My moan feels like it’s trapped between my heart and my throat.

The kiss burns. But it’s the kind of soft, aching burn that you crave after hours spent outside in the frigid cold.

It’s the kind of burn that warms you from the inside and reminds you that hope is like kindling. It only takes a little spark to get to a raging fire.

I’m not prepare for the kiss to end when it does. So when Isaak breaks away, my lips follow him.

His blue eyes are intense, but it’s the smugness in them that warns me that he knows exactly just what kind of a victory that I’ve surrendered to him.

“What’s his name?”

I frown. What is he talking about?

Isaak smiles. It’s the slow, arrogant half-smirk that I still remember from our first meeting. Six years later, the heat it sends flushing between my thighs remains exactly the same.

“Camila,” he repeats firmly. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t… I…”

I try and grapple with the strings of the conversation we’d been having just before he’d planted that wreck of a kiss on me. But my brain won’t cooperate. My lips are fumbling and awkward.

He nods, satisfied. Then he leans forward to brush his lips against my ear and whisper, “I told you I could make you forget it.”

He releases me and steps backwards. The cold air rushes back in between us. It seeps beneath my skin. Sinks into my bones. Makes me long for his fire again.

“I told you, Camila: I know you. Never forget.”

Then he walks out of the room. I stay there sagging against the wall, limp and breathless.

My lips are raw. My legs are weak. And my head pounds with disappointment.

Because not for the first time, I’ve let myself down.

And he’s the reason why.

That’s the fundamental difference between me and all the heroines I read about and admire.

They accept only heroes.

I can’t resist the villain.





19





Isaak



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