Chapter 34
Irelynn
Tara leaves after lunch. She’d joined me to visit the dogs she’d named, Abu tagging along, courageously braving the big dogs with big teeth that could make him dinner in about five seconds. To my surprise, every one of Ilya’s dogs was careful with Abu, even in play. It made me wonder if they could be good with Lucy, as well. Not that I had any desire to test a relationship between my indoor kitty and the massive outdoor pups.
Now, I sit around a full table, enjoying Polina’s version of shepherd’s pie. On the counter, two apple pies steam, fresh out of the oven.
Conversation is mostly in English, for my benefit, I suspect. But every now and again a Russian word is thrown in. Polina has a glass of red wine in front of her, and she’s poured me a glass, too. With Ilya watching me intently, I’d taken a sip to discover that although it is dry, I don’t hate it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t hate any of this. Especially not sitting around a full table that is bursting with conversation, food, and people that really seem to want to be there. As unconventional as this is, I realize, to my surprise, it’s a family.
Ilya’s family—and if he gets his way, it’ll be my family, too.
The thought has a shiver pulsing through my body, and I tug my sleeves down over my hands. The stress on the worn threads has a tear sounding loud, silencing all conversation as multiple sets of eyes snap to the sleeve of my shirt where a hole in the cuff now yawns.
I feel my face heat as I shrug off sharp gazes. The glaring reminder of where I came from, and just how much I don’t belong here with a man as wealthy as Ilya, burns hot red into my cheeks. I shrug, “It’s comfy.”
Polina tsks. “Ilya, you need to take the girl shopping.”
My eyes pop wide as I look in horror at Polina. I’ve yet to hear anyone tell Ilya to do anything, and for a moment, I fear for her life.
I’m so on edge, when Ilya’s hand moves to cover mine, I nearly jump out of my skin. When my eyes snap to his, I see that his are filled with a darkness that has my soul quivering deep inside me. He knows where my thoughts went.
But can he blame me? I’ve just learned he’s the head of the Russian Mafia. I mean?—
I laugh. It’s an unhinged sound that has Misha’s grin stretching too wide. The man, I’m finding, takes great pleasure in watching uncomfortable situations befall undeserving people. For his part, Luka covers a choked cough that could have begun as a laugh. Daniil looks as displeased as Polina on my behalf, and Boris—well, Boris looks contemplative. Then he wipes the look off his face as he shovels another bite of the meaty pie into his mouth.
“Irelynn,” Ilya calls, and I chance a peek at him. Then I choke on my discomfort, struggling to swallow it down with a gulp of wine.
My eyes sting.
I’m losing the plot. The king of the Russian bad guys is going to pitch a fit.
My heart slams in my chest as he leans in close to say quietly in my ear. “I prefer your fear in my bed, when I can watch it transform into something I much rather devour.” My face heats, my body flushing with something other than fear.
Ilya leans back in his chair to appraise me, liking that he’s turned my fear on a dime into the lust he claims to prefer.
His voice is quiet, but it still somehow booms. “Polina may as well be my grandmother,” he tells me. “You would be surprised the way the woman takes it upon herself to berate me.” The table erupts in wide grins as nods of agreement bob. Polina just rolls her eyes as Ilya continues, “But she is right. You need new clothes.”
“I really don’t?—”
Boris cuts off my protest. “I can take her, Pakhan.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees.
I frown. “Why don’t you take me?”
Ilya’s shoulders square in a breath. “I’ve spent more time away from work than I can afford at this point. I am doing all that I can from here, with you, but I am behind.” His eyes sweep the table, and he gives Boris a nod. “You will go with either Boris or Luka. Soon.”
With that, Ilya stands. “Are you finished?” I look down at my empty plate and nod, a little alarmed by the abruptness as he says, “Polina, please bring a slice of pie to my study.”
With a hand wrapped around my wrist, Ilya pulls me from the table.
In his office, Ilya pours me a fresh glass of wine, this one white. When I look at him in question, he explains, “You hardly touched the glass Polina poured. You’re new to drinking, this will go down easier.”
I take the glass and sip, finding that I do prefer the sweeter white to the dry red. “Thank you.”
“Mmm.” He pours himself a tumbler of vodka before he leans into his desk, his eyes fixed on me as I settle into my spot on the couch by the fire. When I give a shiver, he sets his glass on the desk, pushing off it to move to a closet. He opens it and pulls a cream-colored blanket from inside, handing it to me.
Then he returns to his perch at his desk.
I take another sip, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He doesn’t usually watch me like this in here. Normally, I take my place on the couch, and he goes to the desk, his attention on his computer screen.
“What?” I finally ask when he makes no effort to start a conversation. Clearly, there is something on his mind.
“You thought I would hurt Polina tonight,” he states matter of fact. “Why?”
Fear flickers in my chest, but I lift my chin. “You’re a Russian crime boss, Ilya.”
“I am the same man I was before you learned of my working title. Have you seen me hurt Polina, or anyone for that matter?”
“No,” I admit.
He nods, his point made. Saying nothing else, he pushes off to round the desk. In his chair, he opens a drawer and pulls three thick books from inside. When his blue eyes lift to mine, there’s something in them that has my breath catching.
“I have a gift for you.” He sets the paperbacks on the edge of his desk, waiting for me.
Interest piqued, I stand and cross the space. I take in the covers and titles before my mouth parts and my eyes land on his. A wry smile fights its way onto my lips. “Are you trying to be cute?”
He sits back in his chair, regarding me. “I don’t think anyone has accused me of being cute before.”
I blink. “These are all Bratva romances.”
He nods once. “Before you, I wasn’t aware this was a genre.” He takes in my blush, his eyes heating. “I must admit, it piqued my interest. There are more Mafia style books than I imagined possible.”
“You have no idea.” I’m uncomfortably breathless. “Spend five minutes on Book Tok and you’ll be enlightened.”
“Book Tok?” He frowns.
“I’d show you, but you took my phone when you took me.”
Ilya smirks. “You dislike reading on a tablet, so I’ve bought you books. Pick one.”
I huff and look down at the books again. Reading the subtitles, I pick the one that most appeals to me—probably because it’s the most forbidden. Something that, despite the reality of my life, I’ve always been drawn to.
“Interesting,” Ilya murmurs as I hold the book to my chest.
“What’s interesting?”
“That of the three you would choose a forced marriage Bratva romance.” The fire in his eyes is enough to melt every shard of ice. My skin feels hot under his study. “It is fitting, though, considering your reality.”
A sharp breath snags in my lungs. Somehow, I manage to wheeze, “Are you saying you’ll force me to marry you?”
“I thought I’ve already said as much.”
The book feels suddenly heavy in my arms. “Well,” I’m about to tell him ‘good luck’ when a light tap on the office door pulls my attention that way.
“Come in,” Ilya calls, and Polina enters with a plate of warm apple pie and already melting vanilla ice cream. She sets the plate on the small table beside the couch where I sit, before she tosses me a little wink and steps from the room.
I look back to find Ilya’s gaze already fixed on me. “You don’t want any pie?”
He licks his lips in a way that has heat chasing the blood in my veins. “I’m saving dessert for later.”