Page 17 of Sinful Union

He snorted. “Then why are we here? Why the hell did you agree to this marriage? To a deal that was practically dropped in your lap?” He paused then, his voice turning razor-sharp.

I stayed silent.

He shook his head, running a hand down his face. “Look, I get it. I do. You want to believe this is real. That it can all be as simple as merging our families and taking out the Novikovs together.” His expression turned hard. “But I don’t trust this, Pavel. And I sure as hell don’t trust Piotr.”

Suddenly, neither did I, not completely. But it’s done. I’m married now, and on a plane with my wife to spend our honeymoon in Nassau.

I glance back at Kat, who shifts in her sleep, the slip dress riding higher, exposing more of her smooth, golden skin. I should be focused on staying alive, on securing my Bratva, my alliances, my power, but all I can think about is her lips on mine, her nails digging into my back, her body trembling beneath me as she screamed my name.

If this truly is revenge served cold, I don’t know how I can resist it.

Chapter 8

Kat

The woman staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like someone about to murder her husband.

I screwed up last night. Pavel should be dead by now, and Piotr is probably furious that he hasn’t heard it’s been done.

Soft curls frame my face, my makeup is flawless, and the silk slip dress, a gift from Pavel, handmade and chosen just for me, fits like a dream: thoughtful, elegant, far too intimate.

I’m in the magnificent bedroom of our hotel suite in Nassau. Seeing the ocean waves gently crashing onto the shore makes me realize it’s been far too long since I’ve been to the beach.

I’d placed a quiet, discreet call to my little girl while Pavel was checking us in to the hotel. Hearing her voice was a balm to my soul. I’ve never been away from her this long, and I’m already itching to get back to her.

I step away from the window and reach for my purse, searching inside for my lipstick. My fingers brush against something small and cold.

I freeze. It’s the vial.

I pull it from its hiding place in my makeup bag, holding it between my fingers, watching the dark liquid shift inside. So small, so unassuming, yet it holds the power to end all of this. A full dose in his drink, and by the time the night is over, so will he be. That’s what I had agreed to do. But I didn’t expect to want him again,needhim again.

My stomach twists as memories from last night rush in, unbidden and unwanted: the way he touched me, the way he owned me, the way I let him.

I clench my fist around the vial, trying to drown out the memories from last night, but they persist—his mouth dragging over my throat, his hands gripping my hips, the raw, broken sounds I made as he pushed me over the edge again and again.

Pavel Fetisov is not just a man, he’s a weapon, a force, a dangerous manipulator who takes what he wants. My parents are dead because of him. My loyalty belongs to Piotr, to our family,to my daughter, to vengeance.

Suddenly, a doubt creeps in, the small seed Vlad planted in my head last night at the reception. What if…? Piotr’s conviction has never wavered. But conviction isn’t the same as truth.

What if I’m about to kill a man for something he didn’t do?

My hands begin to tremble. I could ask Pavel directly. Look him in the eye, demand the truth. Would he tell me? Would I believe him if he did?

A knock at the door shatters my thoughts, making me jump. I pull in a breath, shoving the vial back into its hiding place before smoothing my hands over my dress, hoping I can hide my anxiety.

“Kat?” His voice is low yet commanding. “Are you decent?”

I press the compact mirror back into place after smoothing on some lipstick, and swallow hard, forcing my tone to stay steady. “I am.”

The moment Pavel steps inside, the air in the room changes; it physically shifts, indicating a force, a presence, a warning, has entered the atmosphere.

I turn to look at him and nearly choke. He’s in a suit, tailored to perfection, the crisp white shirt open just enough to allow a sliver of tan skin to show. The black jacket hugs his broad shoulders, framing his powerful form, and his stance—calm, controlled, dominant—sends a curl of something traitorous low in my stomach.

His eyes darken the second they land on me, dragging over every inch with slow, deliberate appreciation. His lips press together, jaw ticking as he catches the deep neckline of the dress, the way it clings to my curves.

Heat pricks at my skin. I lift my chin in defiance, refusing to let him see how much he affects me. “Something wrong with the dress?” I ask, my voice sharp.

He steps closer, slow and measured. “You should wear red more often,” he says, his tone smooth as whiskey, dangerous as a blade.

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