Page 92 of Fierce Pursuit

Her laughter was light, teasing, but beneath it, the tension thickened, heavy with something unspoken. She held the fork out again, and I caught her wrist, holding her there. Her breath stuttered.

I let my thumb brush against the inside of her wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. “You enjoy bending me to your whims, don’t you?”

She smiled, but there was a hitch in it, as if she was suddenly aware of just how close we were.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Careful, Marina. You keep playing with fire, you’re going to get burned.”

Her breath shuddered out, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she lifted the fork once more, this time deliberately sliding the bite into my mouth, lingering just a second too long.

I arched a brow. “Are you prepared for the consequences, babygirl?”

Averting her gaze, she lifted another silver dome to reveal a baked potato that was loaded with bacon, cheddar cheese and broccoli. “Try this next.”

“Answer the question.”

Ignoring my request, she said, “Veronika didn’t tell me everything, but she told me that her family was in the same kind of business as yours, and that she didn’t have a choice. I’m not stupid. It didn’t take me long to put it together. As far as I know, the only businesses that still seal contracts with marriages are on the less reputable side of the law.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked, stabbing into the potato and watching as a river of melted cheese seeped from where I had cut into it.

Marina sat back, a plate of chicken in a sun-dried tomato and cream sauce on a bed of mashed potatoes on her lap. She took a bite of the chicken, and her eyes closed as her lips twisted into an indulgent smile.

I couldn’t help it, I needed to know what made her look that blissed out. I snuck my fork over her plate and stabbed a piece of the chicken with some of the tomato and even ran it through the sauce and potatoes before bringing it to my own lips.

Fuck, that was good.

It was odd, experiencing something for the simple pleasure of it. “What is this?”

“It’s called marry me chicken,” she answered. “And I don’t know if it bothers me. The bratva is known for its brutality, but is there really any difference between the bratva and any other rich motherfucker? At least you aren’t hypocritical about it. If I ask you questions, will you answer me honestly?”

“I will answer as honestly as I can. I’m not going to tell you anything that’s going to get you hurt or put you in any kind of danger.”

“Have you ever hurt someone for fun?”

I took a deep breath.

Her question was direct and to the point. Part of me had to respect that. She knew what she wanted; she knew where her line in the sand was and what she was and wasn’t willing to forgive.

“As part of my job for the family? No,” I answered. “I’ve hurt people, but never for enjoyment. At least not in the line of duty. Now if we’re talking about on the ice as part of the local hockey team, that’s a different story.”

“That’s not work, that’s war,” she said with a sexy smile.

Marina had always had this energy about her. It was what first drew me in, a magnetism I couldn't quite define. But watching her now—her fingers skimming the edge of a plate before reaching for another, this one piled high with ice cream and a fudge brownie—I realized what it was.

Hunger.

Not just for food, though she indulged in that too, savoring every bite like it was meant to be worshipped. But for life. For experiences. For pleasure.

She knew what she wanted, and she took it. No hesitation. No apologies.

There was a boldness to her, a recklessness that was intoxicating.

No other woman I knew—whether born into the mafia or clawing their way into it—would have run like she did. They wouldn’t have had the nerve to rebuild a life from the ground up, not once, but twice. And yet Marina had, without compromise. Without losing the fire in her veins.

Just like the way she ordered this feast, not because she needed it, but because she wanted to piss me off. The untouched display of oysters and caviar was proof enough. She could have ordered the entire fucking restaurant if she wanted, and it wouldn’t put a dent in my net worth.

But it was the way she ate, sampling, tasting, teasing herself like she was absorbing the world through sensation alone.

And fuck, wasn’t that the same way she had given herself to me?

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