Page 53 of Filthy Promises

“You handled that well,” I tell her.

“Thank you, Mr. A—er, Vince.” She tests my name carefully, like she’s afraid it might burn her tongue.

I like that. In fact, I think I like that too fucking much. My name coming out of Rowan’s mouth, soaked in fear and tinged with desire… I’m hard at the single syllable.

Say it again,I want to demand.Whisper it. Breathe it. Beg it. Pray to it. Say it from your back and your knees, from above me and below me. Scream it.

Fuck, this is a disaster in the making.

I shake my head and spot our first target across the room. “Come with me.”

Grigor Petrov stands by the bar, nursing a scotch. To everyone else, he’s just another wealthy businessman with a taste for charity events. To me, he’s the head of the Petrov Bratva. As of late, they’ve been some of our strongest allies in the city. But as with all things Bratva, allies become enemies in the blink of an eye. It’s best to keep them all under close watch.

“Grigor,” I call out, approaching with Rowan at my side.

He turns, his weathered face breaking into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, young Vincent! It’s been too long.”

We clasp hands. The tattoos across his knuckles are faded with scars and age, whereas mine are still bright and black.

“Allow me to introduce Rowan St. Clair, my new executive assistant,” I say in Russian, before switching to English. “Rowan, this is Grigor Petrov, CEO of Petrov Logistics.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Petrov,” she says, extending her hand.

Grigor takes Rowan’s hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips for a kiss. His eyes never leave mine, the old fox testing boundaries as always.

I don’t trust him for a fucking second.

“Enchanting,” he says, his Russian accent thickening as he examines her. “Vincent, you’ve been holding out on us.”

I maintain my polite smile, but my hand finds the small of Rowan’s back again, a subtle gesture of possession that isn’t lost on Grigor.

“She’s new,” I tell him, keeping my tone light. “But promising.”

Rowan stands perfectly still under his scrutiny, neither cowering nor challenging. Good. She has instincts.

“Tell me, Ms. St. Clair,” Grigor says, “how do you find working for our young friend here? Is he as demanding as his father?”

“I wouldn’t know about Mr. Akopov Senior,” Rowan answers smoothly. “But Vince expects excellence. I appreciate that in an employer.”

Grigor barks a laugh. “She has spirit! I like this one, Vincent.”

“So do I,” I admit, giving Rowan a look that makes her cheeks flush again.

A waiter passes with champagne. I take two glasses, handing one to Rowan. Our fingers brush, and I let the contact linger.

“To new partnerships,” Grigor toasts, raising his half-drained scotch.

“New partnerships,” I echo, clinking my glass against his, though my gaze flits toward Rowan as I say it.

Her pulse visibly quickens at the base of her throat. I find myself wanting to press my lips there, to feel that racing heartbeat against my tongue.

Instead, I force myself to turn back to Grigor. “How is Irina?”

Irina Petrov.Grigor’s daughter. One of the few my father keeps suggesting as a suitable bride candidate. The thought of her—cold, calculating, bred from birth for the Bratva life—makes me appreciate the warm, living woman at my side even more.

“Asking about you, as always,” Grigor says with a meaningful look. “Perhaps you should call her.”

“Perhaps,” I reply noncommittally.

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