Page 41 of Emerald

However, now that Ivan’s ripped my underwear, I don’t have a single stitch of clothing.

Ivan seems to realize the same thing.

“Take my shirt,” he says, throwing it to me.

Interesting. He doesn’t care if his men see me coming upstairs—but he doesn’t want them to see me naked.

I put on his dress shirt, which smells like his warm skin and his cologne. The scent sends a little shiver down my legs. I button it up, using the few buttons that remain after I tore it off him. He’s so much bigger than me that the shirt hangs down to mid-thigh, the cuffs covering my hands.

Even though we just finished fucking, Ivan stares at me in his shirt, his eyes roving down my bare legs. He likes the way I look in it.

He pulls on his trousers, then walks over to the door to open the lock with his fingerprint.

I expect him to give me a warning—tell me not to try anything stupid once we’re out of the cell. But he doesn’t say anything at all.

Whatever happened to him tonight, he’s obviously got bigger worries than me running away.

* * *

12

Ivan

Ilead Sloane up to the main floor, past the dining hall where nearly all my men are drinking and talking quietly, despite the lateness of the hour. They’re mourning Karol.

I should be in there with them. But when I got back from the club, I couldn’t speak to anyone. I was in such a state of bottled-up fury that I had to fight or fuck or run.

I went down to the catacombs in a daze. I flung open the door and saw Sloane waiting for me.

She knew what I needed better than I did.

And she gave it to me, immediately.

She flushed out all the rage and frustration that was poisoning my mind.

Now I can think clearly at last.

The first thing I know is that I’m not going all the way down to the dungeon to see her. She’s staying in my room from now on. I’ll still lock her in, but I no longer believe she’s going to try to murder me in my sleep. And if she does, I guess I deserve it.

It’s my fault Karol is dead. I sent him to watch Remizov. He wasn’t ready for a job like that. That mistake is on my head.

As I let Sloane into my suite, I can see her looking around in that curious, appraising way I’m already starting to recognize. She surveys the tobacco-colored couches, the fireplace large enough to roast an ox, the plush rugs, the black and white Robert Frank prints on the wall.

“Does this meet with your approval?” I ask her. “Will it bump up my Airbnb rating just a little?”

She laughs softly. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh. I don’t want to admit what an effect it has on me—lifting my spirits that were sunk so low that they were almost subterranean.

“Yes,” she says. “You’re well on your way to four stars.”

“Four,” I snort. “Try the shower before you say that.”

I lead her into the bathroom. It’s the most modern part of the whole compound—all spotless white marble and gleaming steel, with heated towel racks, a full-body dryer, and a shower that could comfortably fit four people. There are six separate faucets, including one that pours ready-mixed soap suds.

I turn them all on for her, just a shade hotter than comfortable.

The bathroom fills with steam.

Without a trace of shyness, Sloane strips off my shirt and stands naked before me once more. I’ve never been one to chase after the modest girls. But this woman has confidence on a level I’ve never seen. She’s intelligent. Capable. Ruthless.

---