Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
DINARA
The last hour drags like molasses, every table is demanding, every order taking twice as long as it should.
When my shift finally ends, I slip into the locker room and change out of my uniform, pulling on jeans and a worn black leather jacket.
Oksana waves to me on my way out. “Get a good night’s sleep. You deserve it.”
I wave back as I head out the back exit. It leads to an alley that reeks of rotting garbage and stale alcohol.
Kirill’s leaning against a custom Ducati, all matte black and exposed carbon fiber. It’s sleek and gorgeous, but not as striking as his smile when he spots me.
“You ever ride one of these before?” he asks. “The bike, not the man?”
I roll my eyes. “Nope.”
He reaches behind him and produces a helmet, holding it out for me. “Always a first time for everything.”
“That seems to be the theme of the night,” I agree, since I haven’t been railed by my boss against a desk before.
He steps into my space to fasten the helmet strap, his fingers brushing my throat, and my pulse jumps. Despite the less-than-savory surroundings, he smells clean and masculine and I breathe him in deeper.
“Hold on tight and lean with me into the turns.” He swings onto the bike with practiced ease and waits for me to climb on.
When I settle behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, something bright and giddy sparks through me. He’s solid muscle and coiled power, and the engine roars to life beneath us, the vibration traveling through my whole body and settling right between my legs.
He guns the throttle and we shoot out of the alley and into the street, and suddenly it feels like we’re flying, the city blurring around us in streaks of light and shadow.
The wind tears at my clothes, whips through the gap between my helmet and collar, and I press closer to him, my chest against his back, my thighs gripping his.
We zip through Manhattan, weaving between cars that crawl compared to us. Every turn sends my stomach into a freefall, every acceleration drives me harder against him, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this free.
He takes us through Times Square where the neon makes everything look like a fever dream, then along the West Side Highway where the Hudson stretches dark and endless beside us. The city opens up here, less congested, and he pushes the bike faster.
I tighten my arms around him and he covers one of my hands with his, steering with just his right hand while his left holds mine against his abdomen. The easy way he controls this machine sends a rush of exhilaration through me.
My mind goes quiet and I let myself feel rather than think.
Eventually he slows, exits onto a smaller road that winds along the water, and pulls into an overlook that faces the river. When the engine cuts out, the silence rushes in, almost overwhelming after all that noise.
I peel myself off his back and pull off the helmet, grinning like an idiot. “That was amazing. Best rush I can imagine.”
Kirill swings off the bike and takes off his helmet, tousling his hair. “I can only think of one thing I like better,” he purrs.
A rush of warmth settles in my core and I busy myself taming my hair while he leads us to a concrete barrier at the edge of the overlook, the kind designed to keep cars from plunging into the water below.
Beyond it, the Hudson stretches wide and still, Manhattan’s skyline shimmering on the opposite shore.
We sit, legs dangling over the edge, the city lights reflected in the water.
“I owe you an apology,” he says after a long moment of comfortable silence.
I glance at him. “For what?”
“Going quiet. Disappearing on you after everything that happened at Apollon.” He stares out at the water, and like this, he looks like a warrior God carved surveying his kingdom.
My chest constricts. “Why did you?”
“I was trying to protect you.” His laugh is bitter, self-deprecating.
“There’s a situation. Something big affecting all the crime families in New York.
It’s consuming all my time and energy right now.
” He turns to face me, his eyes catching the distant lights, making them look silver.
“My life is a shit show right now, and people close to me make easy targets. I don’t want to involve you in this mess. ”
My throat thickens despite my effort to keep my voice light. “What does that mean? Did you bring me here to tell me tonight was a mistake?”
“Nah, I tried that and it didn’t work.” He tucks a strand of wind-tangled hair behind my ear. “Turns out I’m not as disciplined as I thought.”
Warmth unfurls behind my sternum. Because he’s admitting he can’t stay away even when he knows he should, and that means I matter to him in a way that goes beyond the sex, beyond the physical pull between us.
“I don’t need protecting,” I say. “I’m tougher than you think.”
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. “I know you’re tough. You fought off a man twice your size. You don’t back down when I try to intimidate you. But that doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
His mouth settles into a grim line. “The situation I’m dealing with. If it goes wrong, people I care about are going to pay the price. My family’s future depends on me fixing this. It could blow up in my face at any moment, and when it does, the fallout is going to be ugly.”
His family’s future? Is this about the Ghost I read about it in his emails? He’s making vague references, but I file it away, a small piece of the larger puzzle I’m trying to assemble.
“Your father,” I venture. “Does he know how bad it is?”
Kirill’s expression hardens. “Let’s just say my father’s idea of leadership doesn’t exactly match mine. At least he’s in Russia right now. It gives me time to breathe.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” I say.
“It is.” His arm comes around my shoulders, warm and steady, and I lean into his strength. “But this is the life I was born into, the only world I know. You, on the other hand, don’t come from this. You’re not tied to it the way I am.”
He has no idea how wrong he is, how tied to this life I actually am, how my entire existence has been shaped by the violence and cruelty of men like his father.
“I work at Velour. I’m in your world no matter what.” I clear my throat, sensing an opening. “I heard stories about Velour in the past, before you and your brothers took over. People say it used to be different.”
Kirill’s jaw locks, a muscle feathering along his cheek. “You hear a lot of things in this city. What kind of stories?”
I shrug, playing it casual. “Dark ones. That it wasn’t always a gentleman’s club. That the business was shadier back then.”
“It’s true.”
I drag in a slow breath, surprised at his honesty. “What kind of things went on there?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Those things will never happen again.”
The raw tension rolling off him warns me not to push. He was barely a teenager back then, so who knows the depth of what he witnessed. But he clearly despises what the club used to be, and in a strange way, I’m relieved.
His phone rings, shattering the quiet. He pulls it from his pocket, checks the screen, and every line of his body goes rigid. When he looks at me again, the man from the bike is gone and the bratva heir is back.
I already know what’s coming before he says it.
“I have to go.” He stands, offering me his hand. “I’ll take you home first.”
I let him pull me to my feet. “I’m not going to run away from you, Kirill.”
He searches my face for a long moment, then kisses me hard and claiming and desperate. I don’t hold back, letting him feel how much I want him with every pull and sweep of my mouth. He adjusts the angle and I open for him. His hot, slick tongue meets mine and I whimper in satisfaction.
I want more. So much more, but now is not the time. With a hand on his chest, I gently push him away. As I do, my sleeve pushes back, revealing the intricate peony blossoms winding up my forearm.
Kirill catches my wrist, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of a petal. He follows the vine of the ink up to my pulse point, his touch so careful it makes my skin shiver.
“Peonies,” he murmurs, gaze lifting to mine. “They’re beautiful. Is there a story here?”
I pause, the truth hovering on the tip of my tongue before I decide to let a piece of it go.
“My mother loved them. She always had them in a vase on the kitchen table in the spring.” My voice is husky from the kiss.
“I learned later they’re the bravest flowers because they bloom even when the spring is cold. I got them to remind me to be brave.”
He brings my wrist to his lips, kissing the center of the largest blossom. “You don’t need ink to remind you of that. I see it every time I look at you.”
An ache blooms behind my ribs, because whatever he sees, it’s an illusion.
“Go do what you need to do,” I murmur.
He releases me only to return with the helmet. He slides it over my head, his fingers ghosting over my jaw as he secures the strap. For one wordless moment, he rests his forehead against the helmet’s crown before he pulls on his gear and swings a leg over the Ducati.
When I wrap my arms around his waist this time, the exhilaration is gone, replaced by the bitter ache of falling for someone I can’t afford to.