Chapter 14 Bella
BELLA
She’s not a nobody, and you were stupid enough to touch her.
Slava’s words before he killed that man keep echoing in my head as the city smears past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow that won’t hold still.
I’m still shaking—fine tremors that won’t stop no matter how hard I press my palms against my thighs.
After Slava had killed the final man, he cut me loose with an impossible gentleness that you can almost believe that he didn’t just kill three people right in front of me.
Before I had a chance to protest, he draped his jacket around my shoulders, scooped me into his arms, and carried me to the SUV.
His jacket is still heavy around my shoulders, warm with his masculine scent, and my throat tightens every time I breathe it in.
Neither of us has spoken a word since we got in the car.
I should be grateful. No, I am grateful, in the sick, twisted way that you’re grateful to the bear for killing the wolves circling your door.
But I can’t get that image of him looking back at me before he pulled the trigger on the final man.
Was that how he killed Luca?
She’s not a nobody, and you were stupid enough to touch her.
An unwanted warmth worms into my heart every time I repeat it in my head, and I squeeze my purse’s strap. I hate that there is a part of me that can’t stop wondering why he might say something like that about me.
“Where do you want to go tonight?” He finally breaks the silence in a low and measured voice.
But there’s an unmistakable strain that I can pick up. Even before I see that his knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.
“Home,” I say.
His jaw tightens and I know that it’s not the answer he wanted to hear. But there’s no fucking way I’m going to go with him, not after what just happened. Not after seeing him kill. And certainly not after the kiss.
“It’s not safe.”
“Then why even offer me a choice?”
He remains silent, and for a moment, I’m afraid I might’ve said something that crossed a line. Slowly, a smile ghosts on his lips, and when he glances at me briefly, my stomach flips when I see the fire burning in them.
“Because you have enemies now.” He pauses for a moment. “Ms. Creminelli.”
“The only enemy I have is you,” I reply. “The least you can do is call me by my real name.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. Hate that he’s seeing me like this—mascara smeared, hair tangled, and unable to hide how I’m still trembling like a leaf caught in an updraft.
“Have it your way, Ms. Farnassi.” His jaw clenches. “Home it is.”
Uncomfortable silence returns and this time, he keeps looking ahead while driving. Passing streetlights dance around his face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones. Even now, I can see the question forming behind his eyes about why I’m so desperate to go home.
He probably thinks it’s because I’m just rattled by the kiss and the kidnapping attempt. Let him. I have no reason to let him find out more about me than he already has.
Then, he takes the exit towards my home, and something in my chest loosens just a fraction.
When the car pulls up to my building, Slava steps out of the car and walks over and opens my door. Then, he extends his hand towards me, his face still unreadable.
I stare at his palm like it might burn me. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure it will, and I don’t want to find out for certain.
“I can walk myself to my door,” I say.
“Not on one shoe you’re not.” His voice strains. “I’ll walk you up. Hand. Now.”
He makes a good point. Slowly, I reach out and take his hand, feeling the firm callouses that I haven’t noticed until just now. A boiling hot surge pours into my bloodstream from the contact.
Before I can react, he pulls me into him and picks me up like I weigh nothing.
I gasp in surprise. “That was a dirty trick.”
It takes me a few heartbeats before I realize that my dress has hiked up almost to my hips, and that he’s touching my thigh, skin to skin, as he carries me home.
Are his fingers pressing into my thighs right now? I draw a slow breath as steady as I can, and shift my weight, and his grip tightens.
Yep. Definitely pressing.
“No tricks.” He looks down and those winter-gray eyes lance me with a spear of fire that settles dangerously deep in my stomach.
I reach up and hold onto his neck. “Just trying to get comfortable.”
His nostril flares ever so slightly as he looks down, and I wonder why we’ve stopped.
Then he asks, “Where are your keys?”
Oh right.
“My purse,” I reply as I start digging, glad for a chance to look anywhere but him as an unquenchable fire continues to burn on my cheeks.
After he unlocks the door, he walks me up the flights of stairs. Each step jostles me against his powerful chest. And even though I hate admitting it, this does feel nice.
“Pretending to be a gentleman escorting a lady home?”
I do my best to make my voice sound snappy, but it comes out quiet and gentle.
“I’m no gentleman, malyshka.” The contours of that mysterious Russian word rumbles from his chest against mine, and sends another involuntary shiver of warmth dripping down my spine. “And you’re no lady.”
God, I hate him. I hate him and his stupid handsome face and the way his hands feel on me.
“Then what are we?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We’re enemies.”
We come to a stop outside of my door, and I peel myself away from his arms. His fingers remain for a second longer than they need to on my thighs, before he pulls back. I turn around, adjust my hair as best as I can, and catch him running his thumb over his lower lip again.
“If we’re enemies, then why did you save me?”
He cocks his head to the side, like I’m the most curious thing he’s ever seen in the world. Then, he takes a step towards me. Instinctively, I step back on uneven steps as he does until my back touches the door.
“Because the only one who gets to hurt you,” he says quietly. “Is me.”
“Are you going to hurt me now?” I regret those words even as I say them.
He leans in close, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His gaze drills into mine, burning me.
“No.” The harsh hallway light accentuates every line of his beautiful and dangerous face as he speaks. “Not until you ask me to.”
My thighs squeeze together instinctively as a sound—not quite a gasp and not quite a moan—escapes my throat.
Shamefully, a warm dampness starts slicking my panties.
I press my back harder against the door, hoping Lydia isn’t about to open it suddenly because it’s the only damn thing holding me up right now.
This is so fucking wrong.
His gaze drops to my chest and he’s staring at the necklace for the first time after rescuing me.
Then he steps back, and cold air fills the space between us. I almost step forward to reclaim the lost warmth.
“Tomorrow morning,” he says. “I’ll send a car. Alik will pick you up at eight.”
“That’s not—”
He presses a finger against my mouth to stop me talking, and it’s like he pressed a hot brand to my lips.
“I won’t risk letting those D’Ambrosio animals get close to you again.”
The possessiveness in his voice should make me angry. No, fuck that, it does make me angry with that fierce righteous fire that’s kept me going for five years. But I know underneath it is a different fire altogether.
“Lock your door tonight, Ms. Farnassi.” His hand moves until it grips my chin. “Do you remember what I told you earlier tonight when I came?”
“Don’t ever open doors without knowing who’s on the other side.”
The corner of his lips tugs up in a genuine smile this time. “Good girl.”
Fuck…
He turns and walks away without looking back.
I fumble my keys from my pocket with shaking hands. It takes three tries to fit them in the lock.
Thankfully, Lydia is sound asleep when I open the door.
I shrug off my single toe pump silently and make my way first to Anthony’s room. When I see that he’s okay and still asleep, I breathe a sigh of relief and head over to the bathroom.
I won’t have to explain to her that the only reason I’m alive after attending another event with Slava Romanov was because he saved my life again.
Inside the bathroom, I unclasp the necklace, and stare at the seven-pointed star. As I do, I remember something that Luca used to say to me as kids.
Once is an accident. Twice is a habit. And by the third time, it’s an addiction you’ll never quit.
I place the necklace down on the sink and look up at my own reflection in the mirror.
Jesus Christ, I look like a mess.
Mascara tracks down my cheeks like black tears. My hair is a bird’s nest. My dress is completely ruined, and it’s only by a stroke of luck that there aren’t any bruises anywhere on my body.
Not because of luck, I correct myself. Because of Slava.
And only after my heart returns to something resembling a steady beat do I realize that Slava’s jacket is still draped around my shoulders.
The fabric slides against my skin, impossibly soft, and his scent embraces me—his unique blend of cologne and that decidedly masculine smell that is uniquely him.
I hang it on the back of the door. I shouldn’t keep it. I should burn it. I should throw it in the trash and never think about the way it felt to be wrapped in something of his.
Instead, I position it where I can see it from the shower, and turn the water up as hot as I can tolerate before stepping in.
The water does nothing to burn away my thoughts.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him looking back at me before he shoots.
When the water touches my lips, I remember the taste of his mouth on the balcony.
And when my hand moves down between my thighs, I can’t stop thinking about the way he carried me to my door.
The only one who gets to hurt you is me.
My eyes fly open and my finger is already circling shamefully around my clit. I should stop. I need to stop.
But instead, all I do is close my eyes, cover my mouth, and push my finger inside. I slide down the wall, all I can hear is his promise that he won’t hurt me until I ask him to.
Scalding water flows down my hair and my face. Steam fills the bathroom. But neither can match the fire Slava’s words have started in my belly.
A whimper leaks out between my fingers, and I wonder what it might feel like to let him ruin me the way he’s ruined everything else in my life. To let him hurt me.
To make him hurt me.
Not until you ask me to.
My toes flex and curl as I bring myself to one of the best fucking orgasms of my life.
And as I ride the aftershocks of my orgasm under the scalding spray, the most disturbing thing isn’t the realization that I want Slava to hurt me.
It’s the certainty that I would fucking like it.