Page 41 of Claimed By Daddy

“Your sweet cries of pleasure are more than enough thanks, princess,” he teases. “But if you want to formally thank me for fucking you, I guess I can oblige.”

“You’re incorrigible.” I playfully swat his arm, loving the jovial way he’s constantly toying with me. But also genuinelygrateful for today, and him wanting to make me happy. Because he cares about me.Because he loves me…

His hand slides around my waist, and he pulls me closer to him—my hips lightly brushing against him with every step. “You deserve more than a life locked in that apartment. You deserve a full, rich life, princess.” His lips brush the side of my forehead as we reach the G-Class in the parking garage. “And that’s the life I plan to give to you.”

ABOUT A WEEK LATER

I should be used to leaving by now, but the sight of Eavan curled up on the couch, wrapped in my hoodie, makes the idea of walking from this apartment nearly unbearable. Her hair is still messy from bed and her legs are crossed beneath her; she flips through the book in her lap that she’s pretending to read. She hasn’t actually looked at a page since I started putting on my boots.

“You sure you have to go?” Her voice is soft, and there is no denying the concernwoven in it.

I step closer, brushing a hand over her cheek. “Unfortunately.” I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep. I want her to taste the apology I don’t say out loud. Her fingers tangle in the collar of my jacket for a second too long, like she’s thinking of pulling me down beside her.

“Don’t get shot,” she mutters against my lips, her lighthearted tone trying to hide her sincerity.

“I’ll try not to.” My retort is only slightly playful.

“Not good enough,” she grouses, brattily crossing her arms and sulking.

I walk backward toward the door, unable to pull my eyes from her. “I’ll bring you home a black-market souvenir. Something with a questionable origin and no warranty.” She grabs the couch pillow and hurls it across the apartment at me. I laugh, tossing it back at her and slipping out the door before I decide to stay.

Nikolai is already leaning against the G-Class when I reach the parking garage—his reflective sunglasses hide his eyes but not the shit-eating smirk that’s far too wide. “What took you so long?” The smile somehow grows more as he razzes me. “Did she threaten no more sex if you skipped cuddles before leaving?”

“She didn’t threaten,” I snip, jokingly. “It was more of a plea with knives.”

“A woman like her,” he muses as we climb into the car, “well worth getting stabbed a time or ten.”

“Shit, Nik.” I smirk, turning over the engine and pulling from the parking spot. “Are you getting all sentimental and poetic on me?”

“Fuck,” Cillian mutters from the backseat. “Do I have to worry about you fucking my sister now, too?”

Our ride is short—a little café in the center of Midtown. A highly populated tourist area with far too many people drinking overpriced espressos for this meeting to go south. The Armenians picked it—probably to ensure Cillian didn’t put a bullet through their skull before taking a seat at the table.

Gunnar swept the place an hour before we got here. One exit to the front and a side hallway that leads to the kitchen. No visible security in the restaurant, but two men at a corner table haven’t so much as touched their drinks.Amateurs.Scanning over the crowd, I barely recognize Gunnar. Dressed in a three-piece suit, with a laptop and various papers spread before him, he looks like the other nine-to-five schmucks filing this place.

“Mr. Roseti. Mr. Romanov. Mr. O’Brien.” The man in his mid-thirties stands from his seat, chirping our names a tad too brightly. He’s thin, forgettable, and fidgeting nervously with a napkin. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

I slide into the booth, setting my phone and keys on the table without bothering to accept his hand. He laughs nervously, retaking his seat, and sliding deep into the booth as Cillian forces his way in behind him. “I’m Narek.”

Nikolai gives him a charming smile and saddles a chair up to the end of the booth, relaxed like he’s here to talk about real estate. “You know, Narek, there is a remarkable vodka tasting room down the block. We could have met there instead.”

Narek blinks. “Uh… I guess. It’s ten in the morning.”

“Live a little.” Nikolai winks at him. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

Unsure how to respond to Nikolai’s relatively unhinged proposal, Narek looks like he wants to evaporate where he sits. His phone buzzes, and he apologizes before pulling it from his pocket, quickly scrolling through it, and placing it face down on the table between us.

“What is it you want?” Cillian huffs, reeling the conversation back in.

“Our people don’t want more conflict,” he says quickly. “We know about the… um… issue with Davit Sargsyan and… the girl. Those of us here in Brooklyn, we aren’t involved in that.” I stare back at him in silence, waiting for him to make the point he brought us here for. “If… I mean, when things come to a head with him—because they will—we don’t want to be caught in the middle.”

If Sargsyan actually comes, everyone will be caught in the middle

“Unless you are willing to entirely cut ties with your Armenian brethren overseas, that’s not a promise I can make,” Cillian respondsflatly.

“Understood.” He nods, clearly unhappy with my decision. When he reaches over the table to shake my hand, he topples the glass of water between us. He instantly grabs both our phones and my car keys before the puddle reaches them both. “Apologies,” he says quickly, all of us slipping from the booth before the water spills over the table edge and into our laps. “Tight space.”

I wave it off without a thought, extending my hand. “My things?”

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