Chapter 22 Bella
BELLA
I'm completely out of my fucking mind.
That's the only explanation for why I'm standing in my apartment wearing the smallest bikini I own.
When I bought it two summers ago during a brief manic episode where I thought I might become a beach person, I never actually wore it. It lived in the back of my drawer like a shameful secret, buried under a mountain of more sensible clothing.
But today, it’s the armor I’m wearing to war.
I turn in front of my bedroom mirror and examine the three pieces of floral pattern fabric held together by what is effectively dental floss, wondering just how the hell they’re supposed to contain actual human body parts.
No matter how I adjust the top, my breasts feel absurdly exposed. The bottoms are bottoms only because that’s where they happen to be. In other words, they’re bottoms the same way that a Post-it note is technically paper.
Sure, it exists, but that’s about where it ends.
It’s crazy.
But I’m doing it anyway.
I turn to examine myself in the mirror, grateful that Anthony is with Lydia for the day. Then, I check my phone. Slava should be here soon.
Just thinking about Slava sends his threat slithering down my spine again.
That dark and intoxicating possessiveness in his voice when he said it is keeping me off-kilter and sends my heart thump-thump-thumping against my chest every time I think about it.
But the part that I still can’t get over is how hot I found it.
After he hung up the phone yesterday, I stayed in the bathroom for another ten minutes as I slowly reassembled my brain into a semblance of functionality before stepping out on watery knees.
Once Anthony was sound asleep, I spent the rest of the night with my hand between my legs and his name on my lips like a curse I couldn’t stop muttering, feeling shameful and disgusted as I chased one orgasm after another until I made myself a whimpering mess on my bed.
And it still wasn’t fucking enough.
My buzzer sounds, and my heart skids in my chest. I take one last look in the mirror at the exposed skin, the defiant set of my jaw, and the dark circles under my eyes that even concealer can’t fully hide.
The moment I open the door and step out into the hallways to greet Slava, two things become immediately clear.
First, my outfit is having the exact effect I intended from Slava. Because the moment he sees me, I can’t tell if he wants to fuck me or if he wants to kill every man in the world so that none of them can see me.
Second, he looks absolutely impossibly gorgeous.
He’s wearing white linen pants and a matching white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dirty blond hair is slightly windswept. His gray eyes are narrowed. The small scar on his chin catches the hallway light as his jaw tightens.
“No,” he says. “Absolutely not.”
I lean against the doorframe in a casual pose that absolutely does not match my racing pulse.
“I’m sorry, was there a dress code memo I missed? We’re going to a yacht party, aren’t we? I’m expecting to get wet.”
His nostrils flare at that word.
“Not in that.” He gestures at me. “You’re not.”
“I’m sure Nico will love what I’m wearing,” I retort. “Maybe I want to see if you’ll make good on your promise last night.”
Oh, he does not like that. He steps into my space and glares down at me, eyes simmering with anger. “You have no idea what kind of party this is, do you? What kind of men will be there?”
My heart starts drumming at my throat as his anger rolls down and drowns me in its heat.
“I won’t let you show up dressed like this,” he growls. “Change. Now.”
I can almost taste my heartbeat on my tongue. “And if I don’t?”
He moves so fast I don’t have time to react.
One second I’m leaning against the doorframe, smug and in control. The next second, my back is against it, and Slava’s hand is wrapped around my throat.
“Then I’ll strip you right here.”
Then, as if to make good on his threat, his other hand slides over my waist until it starts looping at the string holding the bottoms together. Flames dance across my skin. Electricity flares up in my spine. I know he’s not bluffing. Not after yesterday.
For a moment, I consider letting him carry out his threat.
It’s not like I actually want to go to this party.
And if he strips me now, then maybe I’ll finally get a chance to relieve some of this aching emptiness that’s been eating away at me ever since the night of the fundraiser gala.
“What’s it going to be, Bella?” The string starts to slide loose.
With one torturously long heartbeat after another, we keep staring at each other. His gaze never leaves my face, but a muscle starts ticking in his jaw as his finger slides under my bottoms to brush the curve of my ass.
I inhale sharply, feeling a familiar wet heat between my legs, and my nipples twist against the sinfully tiny fabric of my top.
The hand in my bottoms moves until he palms my ass. Then, with a single hard tug, he yanks me to him, and I can feel his erection pulsing against my wet pussy through our clothes. His fingers inch forward, and I feel one coming dangerously close to finding me.
“Last chance,” he whispers, and I know that he means it.
But this is what I want. This is what I need.
“Don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”
He steps into me, and the two of us stumble inside of my apartment. Before I can protest, I feel my bottoms falling away between my legs and my back hitting the wall.
I close my eyes, panting.
Yes...
But the touch never comes.
Frustration tears at my chest, and I force my eyes open only to find him staring not at me but at the state of my living room.
The room looks like a toy store exploded.
Anthony’s favorite dinosaur is perched on the couch cushion.
His coloring books are spread across the coffee table.
A half-built LEGO rocket ship sits on the kitchen counter, and his tiny sneakers are lined up neatly by the door because he’s very particular about where his shoes go.
Reality splashes me like a bucket of ice water.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Slava turns back to me.
“Whose child is this?” he asks, voice carrying a new edge that’s different from anything I’ve heard from him before. “Nico’s?”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest and cross my legs, suddenly very aware of how exposed I am. “Not Nico’s.”
“Then whose—”
“Luca’s.”
Slava goes still. His shoulders stiffen and his eyes drill into mine. I watch his face cycle through a range of emotions, and for once, he’s not pinning me down with his gaze. And for a brief moment, a new emotion flickers through his eyes, one that looks almost like pain.
“Luca had a child?”
“Yes.” My throat feels tight. “A son. Six years old.”
“But why is he with you?”
“Because I’m all he has left.” The words come out harder than I intended. “His mother died giving birth to him, and you murdered his father.”
In the suffocating silence that follows, Slava’s eyes catalogue every detail of Anthony’s existence.
“I didn’t know,” he says finally.
“Of course you didn’t fucking know.” The words explode out of me.
“Why would you know that Luca was a father? Why would you even care? You kill people because it’s convenient.
Because it’s what your life requires. Because someone’s in your way or they’ve crossed you or they’ve breathed wrong.
But it’s people like me and Anthony who have to pick up the pieces that you leave behind. ”
I’m shaking now as I talk, and I know I look absurd right now: wearing only the top half of an already scandalously tiny bikini, snarling and snapping at a Bratva boss who was seconds away from fucking me.
“You want me to change?” I wipe angrily at my eyes. Jesus, when did I start crying? “Fine, I’ll fucking change. You can either wait here or you can wait outside or you can go to hell. I don’t really give a shit which you choose.”
I feel his gaze lingering on my back as I walk to my bedroom, half expecting him to follow. But he doesn’t, and when I turn around, I see a glimpse of understanding—or something close enough that it doesn’t matter—in his winter gray eyes.
And for the first time, he’s looking at me differently. Not with possessive hunger, or a simmering hate, or the barely restrained lust.
But like I’m a real fucking human being.
Like I matter.
For a single dizzying moment, I might almost be fooled into believing that he understands my pain.
“I’ll wait outside,” he says, and the moment passes. “Take your time.”
He turns and walks out of my apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
What the fuck just happened?
I just won, didn’t I? He left without a fight, and even showed me something that could be interpreted as weakness.
Isn’t that a victory?
So why does it feel more terrifying than any of my losses so far?
Why does it feel like the floor has just dropped out from under me, leaving me freefalling into nothing but air?
Three hours later, I’m bouncing up and down on Slava’s speed boat as we skim across the waters of Long Island Sound towards the yacht in the distance.
I’ve changed into a more modest navy one-piece with a higher neckline. Over it, I’m wearing a knee-length sundress in pale yellow and a cream-colored shawl that covers my shoulders and most of my arms.
And for some reason—maybe because I need his presence more than ever—I put the stolen necklace on.
Slava hasn’t commented on the outfit change.
He hasn’t said much of anything since we left.
But every once in a while, I glance over and catch him looking at me. And when I do, it makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t quite name. His gaze is simultaneously softer and harder at once.
Softer like he’s seeing me as more than just his enemy’s little sister. Harder because he might see me as something else I’m too afraid to name.
But truth be told, I get the feeling that the hard look is reserved more for himself.
Almost as if he hates that he’s looking at me in this new light.
I turn away, focus on the yacht growing bigger and bigger with every bounce of the speed boat.
The sound of the party grows louder. Pounding bass reverberates across the water, and I see men and women gyrating their bodies in time with the music while girls in skimpy clothes and heels walk around, serving drinks and being paid with gropes.
I hug the shawl tighter around my shoulders, glad that I changed when I did.
We approach the stern of the yacht, where someone is standing there, waiting.
Even from here, I recognize Nico’s lazy confidence from the way he stands. He smiles as we approach closer, and I feel my stomach twist.
I sent him the list of names last night in a fit of rageful jealousy, and then provoked Slava into believing that not only did Nico invite me here, but that I was fucking him too.
And now that I’m here, I desperately wish I had simply told Slava the truth.
What if my lies are about to blow up in my face?
But it’s too late to turn back now. Nico is already throwing down a ladder and a rope for us. There’s nowhere to go but up.
When neither of us make a move, Nico calls down from above.
“My father is waiting, Romanov. And you know how impatient he can be when he doesn’t get what he wants.”
Slava’s hand rests on my shoulder and gives his best approximation of a reassuring squeeze.
“Go,” he says quietly. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I look at him, but my feet remain fixed in place. He cuts the engine, takes the rope Nico tossed down, and lashes his speed boat to the yacht.
I’m trembling now, and Slava closes his hand around mine.
And for the first time, his warmth can’t cut through the cold dread squeezing around my heart.
“Slava, I—”
“Not now, Bella,” he says quietly. “Now, I need you to be brave. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
His hand finds my chin and I open my mouth to say something snarky—something about how touching me without permission is getting to be a habit, or how his possessive bullshit isn’t as charming as he thinks it is—but the words never come.
We just stare at each other.
Up close, I can see things I’ve never noticed before. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his lashes catch the sunlight. The flecks of green and blue in his gray irises.
Have those always been there?
His thumb traces my jawline gently, in a way I didn’t know he was capable of.
And that’s when I finally recognize what emotion I’m seeing in his eyes.
Concern.