Jace (Belles & Bratva Beasts #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

JACE

They say the devil is a gentleman.

Well… I try.

Though it’s not easy when you’re the head of security for a famous sex shop, and you’re in love with your cute colleague, a married woman who’s oblivious to your obsession.

It helps that I wear a dark suit every day. Add a nice tie and my sweet smile, and no one suspects the dirty thoughts I hide about Vivian Tate.

She’s our boudoir photographer, making her clients feel sexy, gorgeous, and powerful through her lens. They always leave with a confident smile. But for the life of me, I don’t know why she’s not confident too.

Because I’m the sack of muscles who guards the door, percolating drool for Vivian on an hourly basis.

Is it wrong to love a married woman? Even if her husband is a blond punk-ass dick who dresses like a ten-year-old scumbro? You know, like Justin Bieber in XXXL, everything minus the musical talent.

Maybe.

But I’m an escaped son of the head of the Russian Bratva with the uncanny ability to choke a man to death. I swear I can just squeeze my biceps and fuckers die. Don’t use me as a moral compass.

Use Vivian.

She’s a bubbly saint sporting a ponytail and no makeup—the effervescent girl next door.

Though what kills me is… she’s not a girl.

She’s very much a woman with her casual style, white tees or camel sweaters, soft jeans, or a simple sundress. Thank God, the woman has a religion against bras. Or at least believes they should be made of tissue.

So I die every goddamn time I glimpse the outline of her small tits and perky nipples, pointing me straight to hell.

It’s where I belong.

Alright. Okay. I’m not a complete evil piece of shit in a designer suit.

I’m also smitten. Besotted. A total simp for Vivian. Like one of those little boys in overalls on a Valentine’s card, puckered up and holding a daisy for his boo.

Yeah, that’s me.

And so is this…

All six foot six of my grown-man ass trying to balance on a black wooden stool in the doorway of Delta’s.

It’s a hot winter’s day in Charleston, so I’ve opened the eight-foot front door, claiming my spot on the piazza, the iconic covered side porch of this historic, three-story single house.

To my nosy colleagues and brothers, it’s for the fresh air.

To me, it’s so I can spot Vivian strolling up the cobblestone street, her ponytail swishing, my heart exploding.

I have a big surprise for her today.

“We’ve got a meeting at six. There’s new intel.” But Nash, one of my brothers, threatens to burst my heart balloon with our vigilante business. He’s booting up the wooden stairs to the piazza, looking like Clark Kent pledged to the Mafia. His thick, fake glasses only add to his inked mystique.

“Copy.”

I downplay the nerves performing somersaults in my veins for Vivian’s surprise.

And he cocks a brow, catching it. “What’s going on?”

“Noneya.”

He scans the perimeter. The side courtyard with blooming red camellia bushes. The ivy-laced iron gate with squeaky hinges. The pink paint on the long exterior of the house turned exclusive store. The brass lionhead knocker on the black door. Then my face. My bearded jaw clenched under scrutiny.

Clocking shit is my job, not his.

“What’s about to happen in two minutes?” Nash asks like a goddamn soothsayer. Usually, it’s an asset for us. In our secret business, we’re predators and prey.

But I prefer my romantic side, disguised as Vivian’s best friend. No one’s fucking up my surprise.

I quip, “You’ll go sit beside your wife at your shared desk until QuickBooks bores you, and you two go have a hot quickie on the third floor…” I smirk. “Daddy.”

Nash smirks back. “All in a good Daddy’s dick day; what about you?”

“Leave him alone!” Vale, his wife and the store’s manager, shouts from her desk inside the front parlor. “He’s got a Valentine’s surprise for Vivian!”

“Thanks, Cupid.” I roll my eyes. She can hear me. “Wanna shoot an arrow through your lips?”

I spot the fountain of golden hair, swishing our way, and warn Nash, “Ruin this for me, and I’ll spoil the ending of Lost.”

Nash and Vale are just now binging the series. Might as well threaten to kidnap their cat.

He glances over his shoulder, noting the woman of my impossible dreams opening the iron gate as he grins, disappearing inside.

Like a bass drum, my heart starts pounding at Vivian’s light steps, bouncing my way. I wake every day to the promise and pain of secretly loving this woman.

How she beams when she sees me, like I’m her desert oasis. As if I’m her paradise in a barren world, and the only thing keeping her alive.

It can’t just be me.

I catch her secret glances too. Then our silent smiles turn into entire conversations: all connection and no words. The tender tension between us is torture, soothed only by our deep friendship.

Yeah, welcome to my hell.

Not only is Vivian married, but she’s also my best friend. Like the devil and the deep blue sea; in both dilemmas, I can’t have her.

“Hey, big guy.” She smiles sweetly, all caramel drizzle over my vanilla sundae.

You have no idea how big I get for you, Smokeshow. Every time I see you.

“Hey.” I fucking melt. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Halting steps away, she blinks. “It’s Valentine’s today?”

This is why my heart is in a blender over this woman.

She’s so sweet, talented, warm, and hot as fuck. What husband would let a woman like her leave their bed without waking her with roses, a heart-frothed latte, and a morning feast on her pussy?

Then again. Good. That punk-ass better not touch his wife.

He doesn’t deserve her.

I have no idea why she’s still married to him. He’s the dirty fry oil to her spring water.

Because most days, Vivian shows up looking like that. Simple, nude sandals. An elegant black pencil skirt. A wrinkle-free white T-shirt. Sweet Jesus, no bra and happy nipples. With a beaming smile forced beneath her baby-blue yet puffy eyes.

It takes a son who loves his mom to recognize when a woman’s been crying.

It seems Vivian does it every morning, so I shrug. “No biggie. I almost forgot, too, until Vale made me help her with the red-rose vibrator display this morning.”

Vivian grins, jostling the camera bag on her shoulder. “Sounds like there’ll be some lucky ladies tonight.”

Damn, she thinks it won’t be her getting lucky or loved, and it tightens my throat, wanting to confess…

I love you every day.

“Speaking of lucky…” Instead, I rise, doing a covert pull ’n’ tuck on my dress pants to hide the constant stiffie I have for her. “Got something for you.”

Boy, do I ever.

She beams. “Jace, you didn’t have to—”

But I cut her off, gesturing for her to enter, then, like a dumbass, I realize she doesn’t know where to go.

“Uh, hang on,” I mutter, scooting past her in the grand foyer of the house.

For most, there’s plenty of room. But beside me? With my hidden hard-on and huffing, wide chest, I brush by her warm body and get a jolt in my lightning rod.

“Ugh,” I grunt softly. “This way.”

On our left used to be the formal parlor. Now it’s box seats for Vale and Nash, watching this tender game I play of losing my mind for a miserably married woman.

In front of us rises the grand staircase, its balusters and handrails painted caviar black. It leads to Vivian’s studio on the second floor.

But to our right is the hallway to the former dining room, now a remodeled kitchen for events and staff. It gleams in black and ivory like the rest of the shop.

Silently, Vivian follows me down the corridor to the historic kitchen built in the back, separated from the house due to fire hazards back in the day.

But for years, Vale’s been using it to store extra sex toys until Stacey, Delta’s owner, also bought the house next door for offices, storage, and other business ventures.

Leaving this space unclaimed until two months ago, when I couldn’t give Vivian a holiday gift, but I had to do something with my aching heart for her.

Swinging the black door open, I murmur, “I, uh… made this for us.”

Us.

Me and Vivian and our love for analog photography. Nothing digital. It’s the old school origin of the art.

“Oh my god, Jace!” Her trembling hand goes to her lips, her puffy eyes widening. “Is it a—”

“Our darkroom, yeah.”

I try to breathe through our closeness. How she’s standing inches and a million, married miles from me. I may have dark desires for her, but my heart is painfully ethical. I’d never cheat or be a part of it. Neither would Vivian. Add it to the list of excruciating reasons that I love her.

I clear my throat. “It’s uh, almost done. I’m just waiting on the enlarger. But I repurposed the sink and put in red lights and used the old kitchen counters for our wet side and dry side and—”

The joy on Vivian’s glowing face silences me. Yeah, I was mansplaining because she knows what I mean about the intricate chemical process of developing film. She’s taught me everything I know.

Even how to love her so much it hurts.

She’s been using the bathroom on the second floor, waiting until customers and staff leave, then struggling in the small space to develop her film. And I’d happily wait by the front door until I could safely escort her home.

With tentative steps, she enters the repurposed space, marveling at the supplies I’ve amassed.

We share a lost art. It’s not been easy finding these items, she knows, lingering her fingertips over boxes of printing paper, trays, bottles, and supplies.

She turns around, teary-eyed and shaking her head. “I can’t believe you did all this, Jace. Thank you. I… I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll use it.” I step closer. “Say you’ll enter the Nikon contest this year.”

“Only if you join me,” she insists softly. “Only if you enter the contest too. You’re so talented.”

No, I’m so fucked standing this close to her. Even over the scent of cardboard, the whiff of her perfume—marshmallows and amber musk—complicates my clarity.

This darkroom is for her art.

Not the dark deeds I crave.