Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lily
“I didn’t bring my swimwear?” I ask, hurrying after him as he walks straight past the pool. Crap, I’ll need some for Monaco.
“I’m teaching you to fight, not to swim.” He stops at the second door and spins to face me, a frown cutting across his face. “You can swim, right?”
I roll my eyes, catching the twitch of his fingers like he’s restraining himself. “Yes, Drago. I know basic survival. And I can shoot. I just can’t fight. I was a ballerina, not a boxer.”
As I step closer, he swings the door open.
On the right, a punching bag and black padded floor mats wait for me. My stomach sinks. Mirrors surround the room.
I stay rooted to the spot while Drago heads for the shelving at the back. “Come on then, little fighter. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
My feet refuse to move.
His steps approach, and suddenly, he’s in front of me, solid and towering. “Lily, I will never hurt you. My job is to protect you.”
I swallow. “Then why do I need to fight if you’re my bodyguard now?”
He blinks slowly, dragging a hand along his jaw. “Worst case scenario planning. If something happens to me, I need to know you can survive. We’re heading out of the country. I need to assess your skill.”
My gaze drops to the floor as I tug my sleeves over my hands.
His palm settles on my shoulder. Anyone else touching me like this would have me flinching.
Not him.
I lift my eyes to his.
“Someone really wants to hurt me?” I whisper.
I cannot go through that again. I won’t always have someone to swoop in and save me.
“Not you directly. It’s more in case you get caught in the crossfire.
The men we’re going after, they’re evil.
They have no limits. Women. Children. They’ll harm anyone who threatens their empire.
Your father is a person of interest to them now, which, by default, makes you one too.
And I won’t let any of them hurt either of you. ”
The sincerity in his voice knocks the breath from my lungs. He speaks about my father with reverence. And yet here I am, wanting him to do the most sinful things to me. In that respect, I don’t care about his friendship with my father.
“Why do you do so much for my father?” I ask, planting a hand on my hip.
“He’s the man who saved me. The man who gave me a second chance in life when my parents couldn’t.”
My chest tightens. Why couldn’t he do that for me? “How nice for you. I’m glad he could parent one of us.”
The anger burns hot, but I know it’s completely misdirected. It isn’t Drago’s fault. It’s my father’s.
Drago sighs, stepping back. “Your father loves you more than you realize.”
I scoff and stalk toward the mat. “I guess. It’s just hard to understand why both of my parents basically abandoned me.”
Drago pins me with a look sharp enough to cut.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “I understand you’re hurt. He did it out of a good place in his heart.”
I lift a hand to stop him. His eyes widen. “Hurt? He abandoned me and left me with my mom in another country. He never once showed up when it mattered.”
He looks away. “Maybe not in person. But he was there. He knew.”
A hollow laugh leaves me. “Sending a fucking mafia lackey to my graduation doesn’t count as being a good dad. Giving me his blood money to start a gallery after I was nearly ra—”
I stop. The word dies in my throat. Blood drains from my face. A softness creeps over his expression.
Pity probably. Exactly what I don’t want. I breathe through it. Refusing to go back there. “Just show me how to fight, Drago. Then I’ll go back to my room, and you can pretend I don’t exist. You seem to be nailing that.” I pin him with a glare.
“You think that’s what I really want?” he mutters.
I frown. “Excuse me?”
He ignores me. “Punch me.”
He says it so bluntly like a command. And I hate to admit that kinda turned me on.
“Where?” I ask.
“Anywhere.” He shrugs.
“Wherever you think it’ll hurt most. Where you think it’ll give you a chance to run if I were attacking you.”
My eyes dip to the outline of his dick in his grey sweatpants. I bet that’s a monster too.
“No. Not there. But if someone is attacking you, do that as hard as you possibly can.”
I grin. “Noted.”
I step closer, heart hammering. My fist tightens, and I drive it straight into his stomach.
He barely reacts to the punch, just looks down at me like I’ve bored him.
“That was as hard as you can hit?” he asks, flat.
Heat rushes up my neck. “You told me to punch you. I did that.”
“I told you to hurt me,” he corrects calmly. “Again. But this time, use your body. Not just your arm.”
He steps closer, and suddenly he’s everywhere. His hands slide over my hips, adjusting my stance and nudging my feet wider apart.
“Balance,” he murmurs. “If you’re off balance, you’re already as good as dead.”
His palms linger a second too long. My pulse jumps, and I swallow.
“Now,” he says, stepping back with a grin. “Hit me. Hurt me.”
I swing again, harder this time, aiming for his ribs.
He catches my wrist mid-strike and twists, using my own momentum to pull me forward. I gasp as I stumble, and suddenly my back is against his chest. One arm locks around my waist, the other pinning my wrist behind me.
“This is where most people panic,” he says quietly, mouth close to my ear. “They freeze.”
His breath skims my skin. My thighs clench.
“What do I do?” I ask, breathless.
“Feel where I am.”
I do. Too much. And I like it way too much. I usually have to be drunk out of my mind. But feeling his muscular body pressed against mine is turning me on.
“Now drop your weight.”
I hesitate. “Drago—”
“Trust me.”
I bend my knees and throw my weight forward like he told me. His grip loosens just enough. I twist, using his arm as leverage, and suddenly we’re moving fast.
He lets it happen.
That realization hits me as hard as the mat when we go down.
I land straddling him, hands braced on his chest, breath coming in sharp little pulls. He’s flat on his back beneath me, eyes dark, chest rising fast.
For a second, neither of us moves.
His hands are planted on the mat, deliberately not touching me. “Good girl,” he says hoarsely.
And just like that, my panties are soaking, and my cheeks are on fire.
“Very good.” He coughs out.
I stare down at him, aware of everything. His warmth, his strength under me, the way my body feels too aware, too alive.
My hair falls forward and brushes his face. His jaw tightens.
“This is a vulnerable position,” he continues, his voice now more controlled. “If you hesitate, you lose.”
So I don’t. I put both of my hands around his throat, pinning him, making his eyes go wide.
“And now?” I ask, smugly.
Something flashes through his eyes. Hunger. Restraint. Both. “Now,” he says slowly, “you would strike. Or run. You aren’t strong enough to strangle me, and both my hands are free.”
I don’t do either.
I stay exactly where I am, heart racing, power humming through me.
His voice drops. “You feel it, don’t you?”
I nod. I feel the way I react to him. The way his eyes burn into mine. How safe I feel.
“That’s instinct,” he says. “That’s what keeps you alive.”
Oh. We’re not quite on the same wavelength. I was thinking about how I can feel his cock hardening beneath me.
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes, like he’s forcing himself to look away.
“Get up,” he adds softly. “Before this stops being training and we do something neither of us can take back.”
I push off him, legs shaky as I stand.
But the air between us stays charged.
And we both know something just shifted.
I’m back on my feet, lungs heaving like I’ve run half a marathon.
“What next then, trainer?” I ask, forcing lightness into my voice, trying to shove the awkward tension between us somewhere it won’t choke me.
“I want to show you something.”
I bite my lip. Whatever he’s about to show me, I already know it isn’t what I want it to be. Not after I felt his monster of a cock getting hard. That doesn’t stop the curiosity curling low in my stomach.
He slips a hand into his pocket, and my brows lift before I can stop myself. Okay, maybe—
Nope.
He pulls out a knife and flips it open with practiced ease, the blade catching the overhead lights and flashing bright.
“You want to show me a knife? I mean… It’s cool?”
He pins me with a look that shuts down every smart remark forming in my head. “No. I want to show you where the most fatal places to aim on a man’s body.”
My throat tightens as I swallow. “Okay.”
He lifts the knife and runs the gleaming edge slowly across the side of his neck.
“Drago!” I gasp.
“Anywhere here is a pretty good bet.” Then he drags it down over his chest.
“I think I’d learn better with the shirt off,” I say, keeping my tone serious, even though my pulse is doing something reckless.
He steps closer, closing the distance until my back almost brushes the wall.
“Oh, yeah?” His voice drops.
I squeeze my thighs together and nod, not trusting my mouth to behave.
Without a word and keeping scorching eye contact, he cuts the front of his t-shirt and rips it off, letting it fall to the floor.
Dear. Fucking. God.
Under the harsh lights, this close, I feel dizzy. Heat floods me.
He’s a wall of muscle and scars. Ink curling over his arm, across his chest, climbing his neck. Marks down his left side that make my fingers itch to trace them.
Heat floods my body, and I squeeze my thighs together.
“Wow. It really is an eight-pack,” I breathe.
Then my focus shifts, and the heat turns cold.
Deep, angry scars slash across his left side, cutting through muscle and ink alike. The tattoos frame them, but they can’t hide them. They’re newer than the artwork. Fresh enough to tell a story.
“Someone tried to kill me, and failed,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“I can see that. Jesus, that looks painful.” Before I can stop myself, I step closer. His breath catches as my fingers trace the scars gently.
Then I make the mistake of looking up.
His eyes have darkened, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. The air between us goes so heavy I can’t breathe.
I yank my hand back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”
His expression softens, just a fraction. “Don’t apologize.” He threads his fingers through mine and places the knife in my palm. He guides my hand down to his abs.
“Here,” he whispers, brushing the blade along the left side.
“And here.” He shifts it to the right.
“But you want it deep and twisted.”
I inhale shakily, my grip tightening.
Then he guides my hand further, to his inner thigh, and my entire body reacts.
“Another good spot.”
“G-got it,” I manage.
He runs his teeth slowly along his bottom lip, watching me watch him.
“You can take back the knife now,” I croak, desperate to fill the silence before it swallows us whole.
He shakes his head. “No. This one is yours.”
He turns my hand over and opens my fingers. “Look at the handle.”
My breath stutters.
The handle is painted a deep, rich blue, tiny white sparrows detailed so finely it almost hurts to look at them.
“Lastochka,” I whisper.
My eyes burn as I study it, the craftsmanship stunning.
“Did you have this painted? It’s incredible.”
The birds are delicate, purposeful, and almost as if they’re alive.
He smirks faintly. “Perhaps. It’s another skill of mine.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re a painter?!”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I paint things. I’m no artist.”
I shove his bicep playfully, but it doesn’t move an inch. “Do you have a collection I could see?”
Something flickers across his face. “No. It’s never for anyone else’s eyes than my own.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “Please.”
He closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself.
“Begging sounds beautiful coming from you,” he says quietly.
He steps back, reclaiming space before it destroys us. “Maybe one day I’ll show you them.”
I nod, careful not to push. I can feel how thin the line is between him flirting and him shutting down completely.
“So am I ready for Monaco? I can fight off anyone now?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He chuckles and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I won’t leave your side.”
I nod, comforted more than I want to admit. “Well, I best go pack if we’re done here?”
He runs a hand over his stubble and sighs.
“Oh, I need to run back home before our flight. I didn’t pack swimwear. Or anything pretty to wear to a party. And I need to stop by the office to collect some things.”
He grumbles under his breath, and it sounds like it was Russian.
What gets me is the possessiveness in his tone, even when I don’t quite get what he’s saying.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive Monaco with him…