Chapter 12
TWELVE
ava
My body still ripples with the aftermath of his fuck, and he’s still there, inside me. It’s like he’s invaded my bones.
“What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be nice, Ava.”
I try to push him off me, but he just rolls his hips, his cock moving inside me, each slow, deliberate movement holding promise of those full-body waves of joy he releases in me. A pleasing pressure comes with each thrust.
I don’t want to like what he does to me. I don’t want to answer his questions, either, because there’s something ugly in the bottom of any answers I might have.
“Maybe,” I say, “it’s your personality.”
“I’m Irish, I’m fucking charming as hell,” he says. “People fall over themselves to get to my, ah, personality.”
I grit my teeth. People? He means women.
He pulls my thighs up, angling me so that penetration is deep even when he doesn’t move, and though he came, he’s still hard, and I can feel his piercings as my walls stretch around him.
I’m his prisoner in this position and I know it’s deliberate.
But he wants the truth about why I hate him. And the truth is clear. At least, it should be to him. He should fucking know the name of the man he killed. The young man who’d barely had a real start in life.
Again, I’m struck by the guilt that feeds the hate.
It’s a different guilt than the kind I have for leaving Tatiana.
Stan and I weren’t really friends, just relatives who were getting to know each other, and we made a pact when he came home from college to figure out how to take over after Dad died.
It’s how I met Paddy, too.
Learned all those skills with the little homemade bombs, how to handle a gun, things I never thought I’d ever need, but it was all impossibly exciting.
And I needed exciting.
Do I tell him all that? Remind him of Stan? Ask how could he kill someone he didn’t even know?
I close my eyes.
There are two deaths I was witness to.
Seamus keeps slowly rocking into me and that pressure lazily builds.
Easily. He can do it easily.
The outrage is hard to grasp, so I focus on the type of person he is. Another of an endless line of men who want and want and take everything, even what’s not theirs.
Me. Lives. My birthright.
He’s no different.
“Open your eyes, Ava,” he says. “You hate me. Why won’t you tell me why?”
“Because why on earth would I share a thing with my enemy?” I say, snapping open my eyes.
His dark-green eyes glitter. We keep having sex with our clothes on. Like we can’t even manage to get to the point of nakedness, the need too much to deny for those precious minutes of undressing.
“Because you married your self-proclaimed enemy, sweet thing.”
He kisses his way down my throat, stopping to suck on my pulse, to bite. The sensations that follow are exquisite, and they bloom through my blood, making me push up into him.
He pulls back a little, and when the ripples stop, he resumes the slow, deep thrusts, keeping me there on an edge of almost bliss.
It’s cruel, being able to make me feel so damn good, to have him be so handsome and yet so ugly and empty underneath.
“You stole from me,” I say, settling on my crest. “And you’re a murderer.”
“What did I steal? Your sense of virtue?”
“My Volkov crest.”
“I’m a murderer??” He licks my nipple and then moves up to nibble along my lip, and finally, he lifts his head, plants his hands on either side of mine, and pushes in deep, holding.
“You’d have killed me, sweet thing, in Romanov’s grounds, in that building site if it suited you, and I don’t think I’ve actively tried to kill you. Yet.”
I wiggle, trying to get him off me, but all I do is manage to work myself on his dick and he smiles, the glimmering self-satisfaction almost too much to take.
“You shot at me. You threatened me,” I say. “I’ve got a list.”
This is familiar ground where I can let the game play out. And it’s only day one. I have the rest of the year to go. Everything’s tied up with the strands of my plan. I need him alive because I need a husband. And what better one to have than the one who took my bratva—no, took my cousin—from me.
And with him my future.
So I’m just scraping it back.
I don’t even know when we’ll be allowed to look at the Volkov books or finally step in to take over.
Calm down.
These things take time. But it’s mine. It’s in my grasp.
“Well, let me see… I’ve got a list, too.” He starts fucking me a little faster and I draw my knees up, unable to help myself, wanting more, needing more. I can smell that dark scent of his, that amber, dark herbal smell that’s even more evocative with him inside me, filling me up.
I want to throw myself into this, let it all sweep me away, but I fight it anyway. Because I can. Because I need to.
He’s a vortex, I think, one that can suck me right in, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to find my way out again.
I think of my guilt. For liking this.
Guilt for hating him because by killing Stan, he stole my future, so it seems only right to use him to get back what’s owed to me.
Guilt for not caring about Stanislav as much as I should.
And finally, my guilt over not being able to take care of my sister.
I’m a monster, too.
The guilt slips just out of my grasp, and even my thoughts slip until I’m back in the grip of the pleasure that Seamus brings. He takes hold of my face, and he fucks me harder as he says, “Yeah, I’ve got a list, too. One that fucking proves your hate.”
“I never denied it,” I breathe, hooking my feet to bring him in deeper still. “What do you expect when you steal and try to kill?”
“You lie to me. You’ve lied since the moment I set eyes on you, climbing down in that damned fucking bodysuit from the second story of Iosef’s mansion. And I’ll say it again. You’ve tried to kill me. You called for help. Remember that?
“You had someone knock me out and then you discussed killing me. You pointed a gun at me and you slashed me with your knife.”
“So,” I say, spitting the words, “we’re even. You want the smuggling routes; I want my business. We can hate each other in the mutual understanding we’re both safe until the twelve months are up.”
We’re going around in circles, the viciousness growing like we can’t help it.
Like we need it, crave it.
“Good to fucking know where I stand, sweet thing.”
And this entire conversation is happening as we are in the throes of pleasure that neither of us are capable of understanding.
He slams hard into me and shudders, coming, his cock twitching, and then he pulls out, leaving me needing and wanting.
Then he tucks himself away as he grabs the dress and rips it off, as well as the bra, so I’m naked, sprawled before him.
Seamus leans over me and shakes his head, then he pushes off. Seconds later, glass clinks and liquid pours into it.
I try to sit up but can’t because I’m still recovering from that mind-bending sexfest.
Seamus didn’t spare a thought for Stan. Not one.
And it makes me furious I don’t care like I should about the fact that my cousin is dead. That I just hate Seamus for killing my future.
I roll on my side as the bed sinks a little and a glass appears. I snatch it, finally able to sit up, not bothering to cover my nakedness.
He moves to the sofa, stretching out his long legs after kicking off his shoes and he pushes one hand through his hair as he stares at the amber liquid in his glass.
“You’d just better know that in twelve months, all bets are off between you and me, because I don’t take kindly to someone trying to kill me. ”
“Did I hurt your feelings?” I ask, snapping the sarcastic words at him.
There’s a fresh bolt of energy that hits me. And I’m not sure I want to unpack why I like that he threatened to kill me in twelve months, threatened to start a real war once our pact was over.
I glance around.
I don’t have any other clothes, I realize. I put my things in the cab, and his brother, the hard mafia man—hard like Seamus—told his driver to put them in the limo. But as I look around, I don’t see any of my things.
I almost ask. The words are there, on my lips, but I take a deep swallow of the booze instead, stopping them. I won’t ask this man for anything. He will get nothing from me.
For a moment he doesn’t answer, but then he glances at me. “No. I don’t particularly like you, either. You’re a liar; you’re up to something. You’re cold and calculating. But you’re smart and clever and hot as fuck, so we can make this work.”
“For the twelve months.”
“And then we’ll see. I will come for you if you fuck with me. Just so we’re clear.”
“Good—”
“By making it work, Ava, I mean being on the fucking same page because if I find out you tried to hurt my family or got tangled up with someone and helped them try and hurt my family, I’ll make you wish you were dead. Got that?”
“You don’t scare me, Seamus.” I stare him down.
“I should.”
“You don’t.”
He lets out a sigh and takes a sip of his drink. I get up but he shakes his head. Then he rises, crosses the room, and opens a door to reveal a walk-in dressing room that’s also a closet. He tosses something to me, and I catch the soft, clean-smelling material.
It’s a t-shirt with some faded logo on it in a language I don’t recognize. But I shudder. It’s his. I drop it.
“Put the fucking thing on, Ava. I’ll let you know when I want you naked, and right now, I don’t want the distraction of your body.”
I put the glass down on the bedside table and pull it on. I’m not short, but I’m no supermodel, and he’s a tall man. All the brothers are. So it comes down to the top of my thighs.
I sit and drink the rest of my whiskey.
“Happy?” I say with a snarl.
He takes another swallow, sitting once more. “Here’s the thing I don’t understand. You hate me—”
“I dislike you,” I say, trying to get things on track. Soften it a little. But he just shakes his head.