Page 19 of Twisted Prince

“Doctor confirmed they’ll all heal just fine. Tif has a concussion and a gash on her face. Otherwise, it’s just a lot of bumps, bruises, and, unfortunately, some minor frostbite because they didn’t all have shoes for the escape. As far as the girls reported, no one was raped, though they’re all pretty traumatized.”

I can almost hear Pyotr’s disgusted nod. “You figure out Mikhail’s plan for them?”

“From what the girls have said, they were going to be sold off. They came in a truck with a bunch of other girls, but most didn’t unload there—only a select group. The rest probably got shipped out of the country. To me, that says Mikhail has moved his VIP auctions Upstate. Didn’t take him long to find a solution after we blew up Ebony and Ivory.”

The gentleman’s club that we targeted not long ago used to host Mikhail’s high-priced auctions, the ones where his special clients with more particular tastes were willing to pay top dollar for what they wanted. In return, Mikhail has developed a business out of hunting down the girls that might match these proclivities. That generally means young girls, virgins, and women of extraordinary beauty.

We put a good dent in his business when we obliterated Ebony and Ivory. Mikhail had to make do with his scummy nightclub, Kaleidoscope, for a while, which I’m sure offended a good number of his wealthiest clients. But I guess that’s over now.

“Blyat,” Pyotr growls. “We’ll reconvene and reassess once you get home, but I want to make this mudak pay. For everything he’s done.”

“Agreed.”

A soft knock draws my attention to my door as soon as I get off the phone with my pakhan, and I frown. It’s late. The girls should all be in bed by now, and Lev and Denka retired at the same time I did, so I hadn’t anticipated company.

I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet, and I smell like a campfire after the blaze we started inside Mikhail’s kitchen, but that will have to wait. Stalking to the door, I open it to find deep-onyx tear-shaped eyes peering up at me expectantly.

“Mel.” Her name trips off my tongue as my pulse breaks into a sprint. Why this girl—out of all the women on this earth—affects me so much, I can’t say. But it’s visceral, an all-consuming transformation that happens whenever she enters a room. “What are you…?” I clear my throat. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, um.” Mel bites her full lower lip, as if she’s suddenly shy, and her chin dips until she’s looking at me through her thick, dark lashes. “I just… wanted to come by and thank you properly—for saving us again, I mean.”

Her apparent nerves send a tingle up my spine as my body reacts instinctually, always ready to neutralize some hidden threat. But I’ve learned that my hyperawareness when it comes to Mel doesn’t always mean danger. And right now, I can’t tell if she’s nervous about approaching me after our last encounter at her house or if it’s a residual effect from her most recent kidnapping.

“It was nothing,” I assure her, keeping my tone measured. I try to keep myself under careful control when I’m around Mel because her presence tends to cloud my judgment.

She’s beautiful, intelligent, funny, brave—far too many appealing qualities I find deeply attractive—which is why I try to keep her at arm’s length. It takes considerable effort to remind myself that she’s just eighteen and she’s been through so much already for having just become an adult legally.

I refuse to take advantage of that, though the connection between us feels tangible. She put her faith in me because I saved her from the worst kind of fate. I don’t want to exploit that trust. I want to be the kind of man she sees me as—even if it’s far from reality.

Still, the air crackles between us as Mel continues to hold my gaze. Her eyes drop to my lips, and when her pink tongue darts out to wet hers, an ache of yearning comes to life deep in my belly.

“Gleb, I?—”

Moisture makes her eyes shine, and Mel quickly blinks it away as she steps close to me. The fresh smell of rose shampoo fills my nose, not her usual scent of vanilla and lemon, but still appealing.

“I really want to kiss you,” she breathes, her voice wavering uncharacteristically.

It shatters my resolve. My desire to touch her has been near-agonizing. But I couldn’t imagine she would want that after what she’s suffered. And when I accidentally brushed against her earlier, she all but shuddered with revulsion.

So hearing she wants what I’ve craved desperately and refused to acknowledge is like taking a sledgehammer to a cracked-glass window. Because amidst all the turmoil, tension, and violence of the last few days, I haven’t stopped thinking about the kiss we shared in her kitchen—and the way she panicked so immediately afterward.

I don’t want that to happen again.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I rasp, my voice suddenly hoarse with the effort to maintain control of my impulses. I swallow hard, the words bitter on my tongue. Because I want nothing more than to claim her lips right now.

She nods, her eyes dropping to her hands, which fidget nervously near her navel. “Because I’m damaged goods?”

Fucking hell, she must be joking. I don’t know where she came up with an idea like that, but it infuriates me, bringing to life that unfamiliar intensity of emotion that I’m still learning to manage. And before I think through the intelligence of my actions, I grasp her chin and tilt it up, forcing her to look at me. “Why would you say that?”

Her eyes widen, her lips parting in a soft gasp, and the way her pulse flutters through the vein in her throat tells me I’ve frightened her. Blyat. This is why I shouldn’t touch her. She deserves better than me. Someone gentle, civilized, someone who knows how to handle her. Good intentions will only get me so far, and I’m well outside my comfort zone here.

I release her with a hiss of frustration, stepping back to force space between us.

But to my astonishment, she follows me, crossing the threshold into my room.

“Why would I say that?” she demands, angry in an instant. “Because it’s true. I mean, that’s what all men want, isn’t it? Someone untouched that they can claim as their own. And as soon as that’s done, we’re just worthless. Damaged.” The fresh fire that ignites in her eyes burns away her timidity. This is the Mel I know, the fiercely proud woman who refuses to be seen as someone’s possession or a commodity.

But as much as I’m grateful to see her return, Mel’s words disturb me deeply. Does that mean she puts me in the same category as the men who value her chastity over everything? Then a worse question arises: Is she trying to tell me she was raped while I was looking for her?

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