Page 91 of Fierce Pursuit

I considered sitting next to her, feeling the pull of her proximity like a magnetic force. But if I was going to giveher the truth, I needed space. I needed to move. I needed somewhere to put this gnawing, foreign anxiety.

I paced the length of the room, rolling my shoulders back, hands on my hips as I tried to find the right words. But the tension stretched tight between us, and I knew the wrong word could shatter the fragile truce we’d barely managed to hold onto.

Marina twirled a forkful of pasta, watching me, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know much about her mother’s side of the family. I knew she came from money and influence. That was all anyone ever told me.”

I nodded for a moment. “They didn’t just come from money. Veronika’s maternal grandfather was a mafia boss. Her mother was a mafia princess.”

She stared at me, then gestured with her fork for me to continue before twirling another bite of the fettuccine noodles around the tines.

The way her eyes slid closed in pleasure as she chewed was...distracting.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my thoughts back into line. “Veronika’s mother’s mafia family had been dying out, but they still had business contacts, assets, and a few other contracts that the Ivanov family wanted. The only way for us to secure them was through marriage. So a contract was made, and Veronika and I were married. It was only ever a business arrangement.”

“Did you love her?” she asked.

“No,” I answered honestly. “But I wanted to. When I found out about the contract and what it was going to entail, I had hoped that she and I could grow to love eachother, but she had no interest in that. I could have forced it, but…” I left the rest unsaid.

“I am pretty sure forcing love like that is called Stockholm syndrome,” she said offhandedly, and I had to bite back a laugh. She was a constant surprise.

“Are you saying the only way a woman could want me is through Stockholm syndrome?”

She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my cock beneath my robe, making it harden under her gaze.

“Not the only way, but you seem to enjoy kidnapping women and holding them against their will. So it seems the most likely.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, pressing my lips in a stern grimace to suppress the smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Keep it up, little girl, and I am going to give you something to do with those lips, and then your food is going to get cold.”

She gave a small gasp, and I didn’t miss the way her thighs pressed together. But instead of backing down, she met my gaze with open defiance.

“So you’re saying you’re in the mafia?” she said, changing the subject.

The way she said mafia and looked at me without surprise or even fear was unsettling and highly suspicious. As if she said something as mundane as “so you're an accountant?”

“How much of this do you already know?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and looking down at her.

She should have been scared of me. She should’ve been freaking out or trying to figure out how to escape.Instead, she was setting down the lobster fettuccine and looking under the silver dome of another plate.

“You should try this. It’s fantastic.” She motioned toward the pasta.

“No thank you, I eat for fuel, not pleasure.”

“I have never heard a more depressing statement in my entire life,” Marina said, looking at me.

Immediately suspicious at her casual tone, I exhaled sharply and narrowed my gaze. “You haven’t answered my question. How much of this do you already know?”

“Take a bite of the pasta, tell me what you really think, and then I’ll tell you what I know.” She lifted her eyebrow in a challenge.

“I think that it’s too many calories with not enough nutrients to be satisfying in any real way.”

She arched her eyebrow at me and lifted the fork in offering. I didn’t know if she was daring me to try the pasta or playing chicken, wanting to know who would break first.

I was going to have fun breaking her later, but for now, I needed answers. I rolled my eyes, but I sat down next to her, grabbing the fork from her outstretched hand. I intended to take one quick bite, just enough to appease her so she would answer me.

She wasn’t satisfied. She stole the fork back, twirled another bite, and held it up. “No, not like that. A real bite.”

Just to make her happy, and to get some answers without another fight, I leaned in and took it straight from the fork.

The moment the flavors exploded on my tongue, I groaned, and Marina laughed softly. “Good, huh?”

---