Chapter 7 #2
Roman didn't move. He didn't stand up. He just leaned back, his arm draped along the back of the booth behind my shoulders. He looked bored, but I felt the muscle in his thigh turn to stone under my hand.
"Roman Volkov," he said.
"I know who you are," Thorne sneered. "Your father and I have done business. Ruthless man. I see the apple hasn't fallen far."
He turned back to me. "I spoke to your father this morning, Vanessa. He mentioned you're still... dabbling in the arts. A shame. The Foundation needs serious leadership, not... dressmakers."
He said "dressmakers" like it was a dirty word.
I felt the familiar shame prickle in my throat. I opened my mouth to apologize, to agree, to defuse the situation like I always did.
But Roman spoke first.
"Mr. Thorne," Roman said. His voice was quiet. Deadly quiet. It cut through the noise of the restaurant like a blade.
Thorne looked at him, surprised. "Excuse me?"
Roman slowly removed his arm from behind me. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He looked massive. Dangerous.
"Vanessa is not 'dabbling,'" Roman said. "She is executing a vision. And frankly, considering the suit you are wearing is cut two inches too wide in the shoulders and the lapel is outdated by a decade, I do not think you are qualified to critique her work."
The table went silent. Banksy dropped a fry.
Thorne’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. "Excuse me, young man? I am a primary donor for this team—"
"I don't care if you bought the ice we skate on," Roman interrupted. His eyes were blue fire. "You do not speak to her with disrespect. Not in my presence. Not ever."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The threat was implicit in every syllable. Back off, or I will end you.
Thorne sputtered. He looked around the table, seeing twenty massive hockey players staring at him with unamused expressions.
"I... well," Thorne adjusted his tie, looking flustered. "I see the rumors are true. You're as volatile as your father."
"No," Roman said. "My father would have let you finish your sentence because he wanted your money. I stopped you because you are boring me. Goodbye, Mr. Thorne."
Thorne opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned on his heel and stormed off.
Silence reigned for three seconds.
Then, Banksy started a slow clap.
"That," Banksy wiped a tear from his eye, "was beautiful. 'Outdated by a decade.' Savage. Absolute poetry."
I turned to look at Roman.
He was staring at his steak knife, looking agitated. His jaw was clenched tight.
"You shouldn't have done that," I whispered. "He tells my dad everything."
Roman turned to me. The anger vanished from his eyes, replaced by a fierce, burning intensity.
"Let him tell," he said. "I am tired of people making you feel small, Vanessa. You are too bright for that."
My heart didn't just flutter. It completely gave out. It rolled over and died.
I reached under the table and found his hand. I laced my fingers through his.
"Thank you," I mouthed.
He brought my hand up to his lips—right there in the middle of the restaurant, in front of the team, in front of God and everyone—and kissed my knuckles.
"Always," he murmured.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn't fake. This wasn't a project. This wasn't a distraction.
I was in love with Roman Volkov.
And I was absolutely terrified.
The drive home was quiet, but the air in the truck had changed. It was thick. Heavy. Charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a lightning strike.
Roman drove fast. His hand was gripping the gear shift like he wanted to break it. I kept glancing at his profile. The sharp jawline. The intent focus.
He had defended me. He had risked a donor, risked his reputation, just to tell a pompous old man that my work mattered.
We pulled into the driveway of The Hive. The house was dark. The rest of the team had gone to the bar. We were alone.
Roman killed the engine. The silence rushed in.
He didn't open his door. He just sat there, staring out the windshield at the snowy darkness.
"You're quiet," he said. His voice was rough.
"I'm thinking," I said.
"About what?"
"About the Rule of Thirds," I said softly.
He turned his head to look at me. "The fashion rule?"
"Yeah," I unbuckled my seatbelt. I turned in my seat to face him. "Balance. Tension."
I reached out and touched his arm. The muscle jumped under the cotton of the shirt I had made.
"Roman," I whispered. "I don't think I can do 'strictly professional' anymore."
His eyes darkened. He unbuckled his seatbelt in one swift motion.
"Good," he growled. "Because I hated that rule."
He moved.
He didn't cross the console; he pulled me over it.
His hands gripped my waist, lifting me effortlessly out of the passenger seat and dragging me into his lap. I straddled him, my velvet dress riding up my thighs, my knees hitting the steering wheel.
It was awkward and cramped and desperate.
"Vanessa," he groaned, burying his face in my neck. He inhaled deeply, like a drowning man finding air. "God, you smell good. I wanted to kill that man for looking at you."
"You were very scary," I whispered, running my hands through his hair. It was soft, thick. "It was incredibly hot."
He lifted his head. His eyes were wild.
"You think that was hot?" he asked.
"Yes."
He kissed me.
It wasn't like the first time—angry and punishing. This was possessive. Deep. Slow. A claiming.
He tasted of red wine and steak and winter.
My hands found the buttons of the shirt. My shirt. I fumbled with them, needing to feel his skin.
"Wait," he gasped, pulling back a fraction of an inch. His forehead rested against mine. We were both panting, our breath mingling in the cold air of the cab.
"What?" I asked, my hands hovering over his chest.
"If we do this," he said, his voice ragged. "If I touch you again... there is no going back to the basement. There is no 'just friends.' I can't be your friend, Vanessa. I want everything."
He looked at me with such raw vulnerability it made my chest ache.
"I am a possessive bastard," he warned. "I am broken. I am demanding. And I will not let you go easily."
I looked at him. At the scar on his eyebrow. At the worry lines around his eyes.
I didn't want easy. I wanted him.
"I don't want to go back to the basement," I whispered. "And I don't want to be your friend."
I undid the top button of his shirt. Then the second.
"I want everything too."
Roman let out a sound that was half-prayer, half-curse.
"Okay," he breathed.
He kissed me again, and this time, there was no holding back.
His hands slid under my leather jacket, gripping my bare arms. One hand moved down to my hip, his thumb digging into the velvet.
"Let's go inside," he murmured against my lips. "Before I take you in the driveway of a fraternity house like a teenager."
I laughed, a breathless, giddy sound. "Classy."
"I am not classy," he said, nipping at my lower lip. "I am effective."
He opened the driver's door, keeping one arm securely around my waist so I didn't fall out.
We stumbled out of the truck, tangled together, laughing and kissing and slipping on the ice.
We made it to the side door—the private entrance to the basement.
Roman fumbled with his keys. His hands were shaking. I found it incredibly endearing that the "Ice Man" was trembling because he wanted to get me inside so badly.
He got the door open. We spilled into the hallway.
He kicked the door shut and locked it. The heavy thud of the deadbolt was the best sound I had ever heard.
"Mine," he growled, pushing me up against the wall.
"Yours," I agreed.
And as he lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist to carry me to the bedroom—his bedroom, not the couch—I realized that the danger wasn't gone.
The danger was just beginning.
Because now, we had something to lose.