Page 103 of Impenitent Claim

It was hard to tell with the solid muscles, but I could have sworn his body relaxed a fraction. Pulling me forward, he folded himself onto the thick blanket. He might be half the size this way, but his presence seemed to rule over the space.

I sat across from him, crisscrossing my legs. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not practiced in the art of the social convention known as dating.”

Ilya cocked his head to the side. “And you think I am?”

“Haven’t you been on a date?” I breathed, leaning forward. There was no way! He might not be a playboy, but surely he’d been out before?

A rough laugh rumbled in the spectre’s chest. “No, little siren, this would be a first for me.”

“Alright then.” I smacked my palms on my legging-clad thighs. “So we’ll rely on what I know from books.”

“Or….” Ilya took a mug from the basket, squirted caramel sauce along the edges, before unscrewing the cap of the thermos to pour the steaming liquid inside. “We can just be ourselves. Thatiswhat you wanted from tonight, wasn’t it?”

I swallowed. “It was.”

“And you wanted to know more about me?”

I nodded.

“Well then.” He passed me the mug. “What do you want to know?”

Everything. Anything!“We can play the question game,” I suggested.

Those dark brows drew together.

“We each ask open-ended questions of the other person, with the chance for a follow-up if they say something intriguing,” I explained blowing on the mug.

There was even whipped cream on the top, although it was fast melting from the heat. I nibbled at it, careful not to catch my tongue on the liquid.

“Go ahead, shoot.” Ilya poured himself a similar mug but wasn’t as careful with the presentation of the final piece. The caramel he squirted violently into a glob at the bottom, and the whipped cream spewed everywhere.

“What’s yourjob?” I started with the obvious.

Ilya sat back, bending a leg while extending the other past me. One little scoot and I would brush against it.

Which was exactly what I did.

“I am one of the captains of a Chicago bratva. Technically, I oversee illegal ventures, but I’m also useful when there’s fighting—if that part wasn’t obvious.”

I blinked at him.

Russian mob.

How the hell did I not figure that out? Because I didn’t want to think I would be drawn to a mobster? Or because I preferred to see him as the spectral presence that was almost too unreal to believe.

“Club MØ was where we met last November,” Ilya continued, seeming unfazed by my silent stares. “We wash money through the establishment. Although, thanks to the wife of our pakhan—our don—we have much more lucrative ventures.”

“Wow, so, Russian,” I garbled, before shutting my mouth with a long sip of the cider.

The tang of spices couldn’t mask the stronger punch of booze.

I pulled the mug back, grinning over the rim at the spectre. “This is spiked.”

Ilya nodded. “But I was in a hurry, so the cider might be too hot and dull the strength of the booze.”

“Probably a good thing.” I took another sip. “I’m not the quietest when I drink.”

“I know,” came the rumbled response.

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