Page 13 of Bound Vows
He offers a cavalier shrug. “Sometimes, they’re the same thing.”
We finish the meal in tense silence, each lost in our thoughts. When Andrei speaks again, his voice carries a different tone—softer, almost contemplative.
“You handled yourself well during your exploration today, Piccola.”
I pause with my wine glass halfway to my lips. “What did you just call me?”
“Piccola. It suits you.Piccola assassina. Little assassin. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Beautiful and deadly in equal measure.”
The nickname should offend me, but instead, I am oddly flattered. Most people see me as Max Mastroni’s little sister or a decorative accessory at family functions. Andrei sees me as what I am—a weapon in designer clothing.
“You speak Italian,” I note.
“I speak many languages,” he confirms with a nod. “Italian seemed appropriate for addressing my future wife.”
“How thoughtful. Though I should point out that little assassins tend to kill their targets eventually.”
That smile returns, and this time, something hot behind it makes my heart rate kick up. “I’m counting on it. The attempt should prove… stimulating.”
The way he says it makes heat pool in my stomach, which only proves that my taste in men is fundamentally broken. Normalwomen don’t get turned on by threats from their kidnappers, but I am not a normal woman.
“You’re insane,” I tell him.
“Probably. But you’re going to marry me anyway.”
“Because you threatened my family.”
“Because you recognize the inevitability of it. We’re both predators, Maya. The only question is whether we hunt together or destroy each other.”
I drain the rest of my wine and set down the glass. “What makes you think I won’t just destroy you?”
“Because you’re smart enough to realize that would be wasteful. Together, we could rule everything your father built and more. Apart, we’ll just tear each other to pieces while weaker men claim the spoils.”
The scary thing is, he might be right.
“This conversation is getting too philosophical for my taste,” I comment as I stand from the table. “I think I’ll retire to my luxurious prison cell.”
“Of course. Sweet dreams, Piccola.”
The nickname follows me back to the guest bedroom, along with the unsettling realization that Andrei Volkov might be the only person who’s ever truly seen me for what I am.
God help me, I think I like it.
Chapter 6
Andrei
Violence is foreplay when your sparring partner looks like a goddess and fights like the devil’s favorite daughter.
I watch Maya through the gym’s security monitors in my office, savoring the way her body moves through a series of combat moves.
She discovered the penthouse gymnasium this morning while I was on business calls, and judging by the ferocity of her workout, she’s either preparing for war or working off frustration from last night’s dinner conversation.
Perhaps both.
Maya is wearing nothing but black athletic shorts and a sports bra that leaves very little to my imagination. Sweat glistens on her olive skin as she flows from one movement to the next with her dark curls pulled out of the way in a high ponytail. Every hitshe throws at the heavy bag demonstrates the lethal training that killed my men three days ago.
Jesus, she’s magnificent when she’s violent.
