Chapter 32
DRASKO
He might just start hating mornings. To be exact, the particular time of the morning when Grace was leaving his bed.
The sun was not up yet. The morning haze was leaking through the half-open curtains, and his wife was fleeing his bed.
“I suppose, we are done,” she blurted. “I… I am going to go…”
Drasko watched her as she fumbled with the sheet, clutching it around her body, trying to hide her nakedness.
Her hair was a beautiful mess cascading across her shoulders.
Her face flushed, lips swollen from hours of kissing, the lips that had kissed his shoulders and neck with mindless passion—she was now back to her modest self.
She’ll learn.
He caught every bare inch of her as she hurried toward the door to her room. He listened to her quick steps behind it, the rustling of the clothes.
I suppose we are done.
That was a travesty, for sure.
Drasko flung himself onto his back and rubbed his face with both hands, grimacing in a frustrated, “Argh.”
His cock was hard.
Rakshasa grunted happily but wanted more.
And his mind replayed the scenes from the last night.
The way Grace felt under him, how she trembled under his insistent caresses, the shock in her gaze when he first entered her, her whimper when he penetrated her with careful thrusts, the little frown on her face when he touched her down there as if he’d invaded her privacy.
And invaded he had, several times, her face rendered in utmost surprise and angelic wonder when she came around his cock, again and again.
Lovemaking would do that to a person—strip away shame and shyness, make one’s bodily sensations override one’s mind.
And they had.
His body stirred at the memory of Grace’s hands exploring him, only hours ago, venturing farther and farther down.
Oh, the look of surprise and shock on her face as he had let her touch him!
He had taken her three times last night.
Her “privacy” must certainly be a little sore today.
Drasko’s “privacy” demanded more. So, he flung his sheet aside, wrapped his hand around his erection, and stroked himself to the thoughts of her naked.
Grace had a beautiful body, he thought later as he washed up and remembered her splayed naked on his bed, the lamp light painting her skin with a soft shade of honey.
The thought made him smile as he dressed, paying attention to every little detail. He stared at the rings on his fingers, remembering how they glistened against her silky skin as he caressed her breasts.
And he was getting hard again.
Dammit.
Two nights would not be enough. Not with the way he craved her. Not after he had heard her needy whimpers, how she absently murmured, “Yes,” as she forgot herself, the way she moaned his name when he held her thighs open and rubbed his cock on her, teasing, until she asked for it.
He adjusted himself and took a deep breath, trying to tame his hardness.
About to leave his room, he looked at himself in the mirror.
What did Grace think of his scars?
He studied his but remembered hers—the jagged lines on the inside of her forearm.
He now wondered if that was the reason for her long sleeves, even at home, in the heat of the summer.
And there was a big one under her ribs. He wanted to know where it had come from, felt a pang of anger at what had caused it.
It was too early to ask. His wife would avoid any conversations about their night together.
And he cut off that silly proud smile that split his face.
He fixed his tie and—what do you know?—wondered whether Grace would notice the extra care with which he dressed today.
Oh, hell! He was concerned about his looks and what she would think!
Irritated, he tugged at his tie carelessly and strode out of his room. Then, walking down the hall, he fixed his tie again.
Sitting alone in the dining room, he stared at the clock on the wall for half an hour, waiting for Grace to come down for breakfast.
He was on his second cup of coffee when he heard the hurried clicking of her heels against the marble floor in the hallway. They slowed down as they approached the room, then halted behind the door.
He tensed when she stepped in. A peach-colored dress with a high neckline accentuated her dark hair. Long lace sleeves hid the scars he had kissed last night. Her lips looked swollen—his doing. Her face was flushed—it must’ve taken her a while to summon the courage to come downstairs.
Little coward.
Her smile was courteous, her glance at him too brief. “Good morning.”
Samira hurried to pour tea for her.
Drasko draped his arm over his chair back and studied Grace, remembering what it had felt like to finally have her in his arms. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help it.
“It would be better if you didn’t leave my bed so soon this morning,” he said. “I had urgent business for you to take care of.”
The crimson of her face made him harden with want.
Samira bit back a smile.
“When would you like our second night?” he inquired, though he had promised himself he wouldn’t tease her. “We can try something different.” Grace turned scarlet and so wonderfully baffled. “Have you ever paid attention to the ceiling frescos in the music room?”
Even the tips of her ears turned bright red. She picked up her teacup, fumbled, and spilled a little.
Samira covered her mouth to hide her grin and hurried out of the dining room.
And Drasko studied his wife, her lovely summer dress, which hid the swell of her breasts that he’d kissed last night, her buttocks that fit perfectly in his big hands, her body that he’d had all to himself.
One night and he was starting to lose his grip.
He needed to think about the auction. But all he thought about were her creamy thighs wide open, all her charms on full display for him.
He would give a fortune to take her upstairs right now and kiss her blush away.
A sharp knock sounded at the door, and Grace’s face filled with relief as Tripp walked in.
“The team is assembled, sir.”
As much as Drasko wished he could spend all morning enjoying his wife’s blushing, there were pressing matters to attend to.
Sure enough—the sheer size of the team that gathered in his office was a sign that the times were changing.
The men from last night— inside his fucking house—weren’t simple thieves.
Then who?
The Metropolitan Police were useless. The man who ended up shot and in the hospital wasn’t yet talking.
The Wollendorfs’ hounds , Drasko was sure, his jaw tightening and his fists itching just thinking about them.
Even the most powerful often resorted to dirty tricks when their power couldn’t solve a problem. And Drasko had been a problem for them for a while. Especially with what had transpired when he had received the second letter.
Drasko studied the new men with anticipation. Several dozens of them, chosen carefully by Tripp, now stood in a line like an army of soldiers, dressed in expensive suits that hid unparalleled brutal skills.
“Gentlemen.” Drasko nodded in greeting.
Most of them didn’t come from the good parts of the city, but all of them were vouched for.
And he had invited them here, to his house, to his office, because this was his business.
These men would be in charge of his and Grace’s safety.
And the one thing Drasko had learned a long time ago was to treat the men who worked for him with respect and pay them generously.
Whether they were the little boys sorting his diamonds in the caves, the kitchen staff cooking his food, the lawyers who handled his accounts, or the bankers who took care of his fortune—they all deserved the same respect, the poorer even more so, for their loyalty was unmatched.
Uriah Mawr had once had a lawyer who was selling Mawr information to the Wollendorfs.
Uriah, of course, treated people as objects.
And the lawyer… Well, the more wealth people had, Drasko had learned, the more they were willing to betray for a juicier piece.
No one survived Uriah’s wrath. Naturally, the lawyer was ruined.
That was why Drasko’s guards were paid more than the clerks in his company’s offices. That was why he dressed them well, kept them happy, knew their families, allowed them in his home, and never let himself disrespect them even with a single word.
That was Drasko’s way.
Now, he walked the line, assessing the new recruits.
“Name?” He pointed at a short stocky man.
“Aaron Gelski, sir.” The man nodded.
“Language?”
“Hebrew.”
“Good.” Drasko nodded and took a step toward another man with the same question. “Name?”
Thato, South African, spoke Dutch.
The next one was Italian. There was an Asian man. Another was German.
Drasko nodded in satisfaction. He needed someone German in case they were around the Wollendorfs, and Jewish if he wanted connections with the Yiddishers, and many others—Drasko wanted them all, and to hell with the wealthy who would soon spread the rumors that the Diamond King was hiring “undesirables” from all places on earth.
The titled still called Drasko that behind his back.
He knew it, didn’t care about the occasional “gypsy” that Tripp reported now and then.
Drasko’s guards carried guns and could fight like illegal underground fighters. Very soon, Drasko would know where they had come from, whether they had families, and would arrange their accommodation.
“How many children do you have? Do they go to school?” Drasko asked Aaron Gelski as they walked down narrow Poplar Street later that very day.
Drasko enjoyed talking to his men and learning about their backgrounds. One could learn from anyone and anything. And he never stopped learning.
He was having a chat with each of the new men one on one. The rest followed as Tripp filled them in on the current course of events. Later, they would show the men the port docks and the warehouse where the official shipments came, then determine where each of the new men would be useful.
It was a fine afternoon, not too hot despite the growing summer heat. Poplar Street wasn’t busy. It wasn’t the safest area, but Drasko had a dozen men with him.
He was in the best of moods. The night with Grace was fresh on his mind. Two nights a month. Well, he might just use the second one tonight. And tomorrow—he’d just borrow from next month.
Drasko stifled a chuckle, imagining Grace’s face when he would tell her just that. Nothing tamed women like gentle hands, deep kisses, and a skillful tongue—Drasko was yet to show her all he could do with it. His bedroom might just become the best place for their negotiations.
He felt himself growing hard.
Fucking hell.
He cleared his throat and asked Aaron to repeat his last comment when a loud whistle pierced the air.
It came from a shoe-cleaning boy ten feet away from them. Nothing unusual, but the whistle was followed by another one down the street. Then another.
Drasko slowed his steps.
Tripp walked up to him. “Boss?” Wary, he undid his holster and put his hand on the revolver, scanning the street and the buildings around them. “Boss, something is not right.”
Drasko halted at once, studying the surroundings.
Everything seemed ordinary, save for the strange emptiness of the street. London streets never cleared out by day, unless on purpose and done under someone’s orders.
His men approached and surrounded him, his backs to him, their eyes searching the area.
“Boss, I know that whistling,” Tripp said, sucking his teeth. “The Bankees’ street runners.”
“The Bankee Syndicate?”
“That’s their calling card, yes.”
“What do the Bankees have to do with us?”
“Boss?” Tripp nodded around.
The few people on the street hurried inside the buildings. The street stalls and shopfronts took down their “open” signs. The window shutters closed.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the street went quiet, the distant sound of the horses’ clip-clops barely reaching it.
“Look.” Tripp nodded toward the end of the street and pulled out his gun. “Weapons,” he ordered, and a dozen guns came out.
Drasko narrowed his eyes at the end of the street.
There they were—whoever tried to rob or attack him last night, he was sure—the men at the end of the street were coming for him again.
Several dozen of them were walking in his direction. Measured steps. Hands on their holsters. Three followed on horseback, the horseshoes clacking against the cobblestone.
Another whistle came.
Shotgun barrels pushed out of the several windows on the upper floors and pointed down.
“Fuck,” Tripp muttered. “This is an ambush. Boss, step back,” he ordered, shielding Drasko as he faced the approaching group.
Drasko’s heart thudded with a jolt of anticipation. He used to like danger and had been in so many fights that he’d learned to recognize that pleasant surge of energy that suddenly rushed through his veins.
He’d been in worse places and in worse times. This wouldn’t be the end. Even the likes of the Wollendorfs couldn’t get rid of him yet, not when they didn’t know what would happen to the Mawr empire if they had or to the auction or the Crimson Tear that everyone, undoubtedly, was curious about.
Everything was a negotiation.
In moments of danger, the phantom of Rakshasa behind him was more tangible than ever, its low growl drumming along with his heartbeat, a silent cue to be ready to strike.
If worse came to worst, Drasko would rip someone’s face out. At least one, or two.
But he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his men for this silly harassment.
“Tripp, step aside,” he ordered coldly.
His blood simmered with the need to fight as he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the approaching men.