Page 44 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
His finger traces the curve of my shoulder, barely touching. “Is this what you want, Mila? To keep pretending? To keep acting like you don’t go home and touch yourself thinking about me?”
My breath stalls in my throat, pulse pounding.
“If I kiss you now,” he breathes against my ear, “there’s no going back. No more doctor and patient. No more professional boundaries. Just you and me and whatever is burning between us.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Do you? Because once I have you, Mila, I won’t let go. Not for the Bratva. Not for ethics. Not for anything.”
Thunder explodes directly overhead. The lights flicker once, twice.
Then darkness. Complete. Absolute.
“Stay still,” he commands, but he’s already moving. I feel the air shift.
Lightning flashes, illuminating him for a split second standing over me, eyes wild with something that makes my breath stop.
Darkness again.
“Yakov—”
“Shh.” His hands find my shoulders in the dark. “The generators will kick in. Thirty seconds. That’s all we have.”
“All we have for what?”
His thumb traces my collarbone. “For this.”
In the darkness, I feel him lean closer. His breath on my neck. His hand sliding down my arm, fingers interlacing with mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my skin.
I can’t. God help me, I can’t.
His lips brush my throat—not quite a kiss, just heat and promise.
“Fuck,” he growls against my skin, and hearing him curse, hearing him break, undoes me. His hands are shaking where they grip my shoulders.
“I dream about you,” he confesses, words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “Burn up my sheets every night. Wake up hard, with your name on my lips.”
Another flash of lightning shows his face—desperate, hungry, completely undone.
And then a knock. Loud. Brutal.
We break apart like something burned us. Lights flick back on, and Igor steps into the room, no apology on his face. Just that same cold, assessing stare.
“Session’s over,” he says, eyes darting between us. “Security briefing. Ten minutes.”
I stand, smooth the skirt I wore for professionalism, not seduction. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gagarin. We’ll continue Wednesday.”
Yakov is already composed again. Not a trace of what just happened remains on his face. “Until then, Dr. Agapova.”
But I can feel his eyes on my back as I follow Igor out.
In the hallway, Igor doesn’t bother hiding his disdain. “Be careful, Mila. Men like Gagarin don’t form attachments, they exploit vulnerabilities.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say. It sounds steadier than I feel.
He snorts. “Sure you do. Just make sure you’re not the one who ends up burned.”
