Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
It’s not the tats, but we would’ve wanted to make sure her tattoo artist was legit.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
Then she turns, slow and unbothered, and lifts her shirt again—baring her back like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.
Hell, maybe that’s the point.
And I freeze.
The gentle curve of her lower back catches the light—subtle muscle, smooth skin. The slope of her spine disappears into the waistband of those too-tight shorts, and I swear I can see her pulse flickering beneath the surface.
But it’s the ink that kills me.
I reach for her without thinking. My fingertips barely graze her, tracing the black lines carved into her skin.
The tattoos are fucking stunning.
Delicate, fierce, feminine—like her.
Wings unfurling from her shoulder blades, a dagger entwined in roses down her spine, thorns curling around words I can’t fully read from here.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out. “They’re fucking gorgeous.”
She hums, smug. “You gonna kiss them or just stare like a creep?”
I don’t answer. Because now all I can think about is where the ink ends.
“Do you have any others?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She glances over her shoulder, her grin lazy and lethal.
“Yes, sir. In places you’re not allowed to see,” she says coyly.
And I want to kiss her.
I'm consumed with the desire to kiss her. I want to gather her in my arms, bury my fingers in her hair, and taste her lips. Quiet the fire. Every step I take brings me closer to her, and I want to take that next step more than anything.
But I don't. I can't. It's wrong.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She speaks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Go check on Luka. I'll get dressed. It would be kind of awkward if we left the room at the same time, anyway, wouldn't it?"
"I don't give a fuck. Those are my brothers."
“I think… I’d feel better not planting suggestions.”
Fair enough.
I push out of bed and pull on a pair of gray sweats.
"Did someone put those there as a prank?" she says from the bed, eyeing them with a raised brow.
I glance at her, confused. "What?"
"Nothing," she says, rolling her eyes and heading to the bathroom. "Gray sweats are just the male equivalent of lingerie."
What the fuck is she talking about?
She disappears into the bathroom, taking care of whatever she needs to, and I head out to the main room.
Luka is sitting at the table with Polina—Rafail’s wife—and Zoya. I can hear Rafail’s voice coming from the other room, probably in the middle of a call.
“Papa!” Luka leaps up from his seat, promptly knocking his juice to the floor. It splashes across the tile. He looks horrified, frozen in the moment, but Polina and Zoya are on their feet in seconds.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Polina says gently. “Accidents happen. Come help me clean this up, Luka.”
He clumsily helps them mop up the mess while I walk over to the table, crouching down in front of him. I reach for him.
“She’s right,” I say softly. “Accidents happen. Come here, buddy. I missed you.”
He jumps into my arms, and I scoop him up. His little legs wrap around my waist, arms loop around my neck, and he rests his head against my shoulder.
“I missed you too. I had fun with Auntie Zoya, but I like my bed at home better. When can we go home, Papa?”
“Soon,” I promise him. “We’ll have some more fun today, okay?”
He lifts his head. “Is Auntie Ruthie coming?”
I freeze for half a second. I wish he hadn’t asked. I’d rather not bring attention to the fact that Ruthie and I are sharing a bed.
“She’s here, buddy.”
He grins. “I like it when she visits.”
“Morning.”
Ruthie steps out just then.
Luka shimmies down my chest and launches himself at her.
“Hey!” I call out. “Don’t knock your auntie down.”
“Sorry,” he says, hugging her tightly. “I’m just excited to see you.”
She ruffles his hair. “Thank you. I’m not as sturdy as your daddy, and I think I’d fall over a lot easier than he would.”
“Let’s not test that theory,” I mutter.
She’s changed clothes—simple, clean—but she looks… stunning. She always wears black, nothing fitted or curvy. But now? She’s in a pair of jeans that hug her hips and a little white tank top. Beautiful.
I can't believe I almost kissed her. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Alright, we need to make some plans,” Rafail says, coming around the corner.
It’s unusual to see him all casual. He’s in jeans and a Henley—uncommon for him. “Let’s talk details. Turns out, it was a false alarm. We intercepted data about the Irish, but it didn’t pan out. The threats didn’t come to fruition, and no one was hurt. Just a whole lot of noise and nothing real behind it. So after I get clearance today, we should be free to go home.”